


Hexes

by darkhorse82



Series: Light [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Blind Character, Blood and Injury, Drug Use, F/M, Flashbacks, Gay Sex, Het and Slash, Humor, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Bullshittery, Murder, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, PTSD John, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Russian OFC, Seizures, Sequel, Snark, Suicidal Thoughts, Vaginal Sex, overuse of ellipses, two idiots attempting to communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-01-24 06:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkhorse82/pseuds/darkhorse82
Summary: Direct sequel to Ghosts and Monsters https://archiveofourown.org/works/15332901/chapters/35575440 so read that first.John and Sherlock are back in 221B while John recovers from his encounter with Sebastian Moran. As they work through Sherlock's nightmares and John's PTSD to regain the camaraderie they lost while Sherlock was away, a series of murders drive them closer than ever.Just when they start getting used to their new relationship, an incident Sherlock suffered through while he was chasing Moran through Russia comes back to haunt them, leading Mycroft to call on their resident snarky Russian ex special agent, Lio.





	1. An Old Phantom

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't particularly *planning* on going Johnlock with this; in fact I kinda wanted to avoid it since it seems like it'd be more uncommon to do one without them being in a relationship. But then I thought, eh, fuck it. This also probably would've been finished by now had I not been interrupted by a baseball-sized brain tumor in October. I'm blaming all mistakes on that. I also didn't want to put all the sex tags on here; where's the fun in that? read it to find out what they get up to!
> 
> Chapter title from "Hexes" off Polaris by Tesseract

Sherlock's return caused Mrs Hudson to faint in his arms. Once revived, she burst into tears and hugged him tightly, ranting about what a terrible person he was for leaving them, while at the same time showering him with affection and welcoming him home. She fussed over John's injuries and remarked that although he looked like he'd been through the wringer, he looked happier than he had in ages, causing him to wave her off embarrassedly. While waiting for an easy meal of spaghetti to finish cooking, Mrs Hudson took it upon herself to make up Sherlock's room with fresh linens. 

As the three of them had dinner together, they talked about why Sherlock had been gone. Noticing that John's eyes tightened at the corners and they lost some of their warmth, Sherlock steered the conversation toward current events, assuring Mrs Hudson that with Moran gone, there was no more danger from Moriarty. He spoke briefly of his time with Lio and promised they would be introduced soon.

“You'll be moving back here again, then? Permanently?” she asked. “Good, it'll be good to have both my boys under one roof. And John needs someone to take care of him.”

John felt his face heat up. “Mrs Hudson,” he said and ducked his head.

“Well, I'll leave you two to get settled. Let me know if you need anything dearies,” she said happily and went back to her flat.

Sherlock dealt with the washing up while John watched from his seat at the kitchen table. He yawned into his hand.

“Sherlock, I was thinking. Maybe we should switch rooms, at least until I have one fully functioning leg again. You can take my room. I'm positively exhausted; I was planning to go to bed now, actually.”

Sherlock's mobile beeped with a text. “Hold that thought, John. Come downstairs.”

*/*/*/*/*

Sherlock helped John haul himself back up the stairs after Lio and Mycroft left. “So that's what you were conspiring with Mycroft about at the hospital. That's good. I'm glad she'll be close.” They reached Sherlock's bedroom. John was sweating lightly from exertion and just wanted to rest, but he needed to divest himself of all the equipment that was currently holding his body together. “Ah, Sherlock, can you help get the braces off my feet? It's nearly impossible to do one handed.”

“Of course.” John sat on the bed and Sherlock gently undid the clasps on the braces. He stood up and removed the shoulder harness as well.

John started chuckling. “We didn't think this through very well. Both the shoulder brace and the boot for my left ankle have to go back on, since they need to be worn 24/7. I'm not wearing them bare, though. They'll chafe terribly. Would you mind running upstairs and getting some--”

Sherlock was already gone. John shook his head and shimmied out of his pants. He was halfway out of his shirt when Sherlock returned. He cleared his throat and held the pajamas out to John.

“Ta,” he said, but didn't take them. He slowly slid his shirt off his left arm, taking care not to jostle it too much. His brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to figure out the easiest way to go about putting a shirt back on.

Sherlock solved it for him by stepping in front of him and shoving his head through the shirt. John was able to raise his right arm to get it though the armhole, but his left was essentially non-functional. Sherlock gently guided it through, only causing John to inhale sharply in pain twice. They stopped before tackling the pants, John's shirt not quite settled and showing the long horizontal slash Moran left on his belly. Sherlock looked at it and grimaced.

“Don't.” John said warningly. “It's done, he's gone. I'm all right. A little cold though," he added with a small smirk.

Sherlock broke his melancholy and helped John put his feet into the pants. When they were up around his knees, Sherlock put the boot back on John's left leg. John was able to stand, using Sherlock's crouched form as a crutch, and pull the pants up the rest of the way. He determinedly looked anywhere but at Sherlock, not needing the extra embarrassment of acknowledging that his groin was nearly in the man's face. Sherlock then replaced the shoulder brace.

“Well. Now we know how to go about it for next time. Thank you Sherlock. You should get some rest too, you need it as much as I do.” 

*/*/*/*/*/*/*

They settled into a routine over the next few weeks. Sherlock worked Lestrade's cold cases but wouldn't leave the flat. He ran all the errands, doing all the shopping while John was at physical therapy so he could be home with John. It was a good set up, but John knew Sherlock was going stir-crazy, living this forced domesticity. 

After five weeks, doctors decided that John's right foot was healed enough to no longer require the supportive shoe and after six weeks, he was allowed to remove the shoulder brace to sleep. Sherlock started leaving periodically then, picking up items from the morgue, but he never stayed out more than an hour or so. With the shoe removed, he was able to manage the stairs, albeit slowly, so John moved back up to his old room at that point, not wanting to keep Sherlock out of the man’s own bed any longer. Sherlock seemed to take that as a sign to stay up to all hours clinking around with his chemistry equipment, or chiseling through whatever bone matter he’d picked up from the morgue. He’d been quiet when John was in Sherlock’s room, and John had gotten used to it. Now, however, the noise was beginning to grate on his nerves.

At his wits' end, John sent Lestrade a text, begging him to get Sherlock out of the flat for a few hours.

Lestrade sat on the couch with a cuppa and watched with some amusement as John and Sherlock argued.

“Sherlock, I'm fine. You need to get out for a while. It'll do us both some good. Go solve a case, get back into it again.”

Sherlock hummed skeptically. “You're still not 100%. What if--”

“I'll call if I need anything. And Lio and Mrs Hudson are downstairs in an emergency. Go Sherlock!” John made a shooing motion with his hand.

Sherlock didn't look convinced, but said, “All right. If you're sure. This won't take long. I'll pick up some curry on the way home.”

“Perfect. Now go!”

The case Lestrade dragged him to was hardly a 4, but John was right, he needed to get out. It was clear on the other side of London and took almost 45 minutes to arrive. As they pulled up to the crime scene, a little thrill of anticipation shivered down his spine. It felt good to be back.

“Well well, I thought we'd gotten rid of the freak.”

For the most part. “Yes, good to see you too Donovan. There are storms moving in, so can we cut the childish name calling and get on with it?”

She scowled at him and let him through the police tape. 

Thunder rumbled in the distance as he wrapped up his investigation, informing Lestrade haughtily that this wasn't a murder but an accidental death caused by the man's prescription drugs and an undiagnosed heart condition that would be found in the autopsy. 

The storm chased them back toward Baker Street, and Sherlock remembered his promise to pick up curry. Lestrade dropped him off at a nearby Indian place, and he took a cab the rest of the way once he picked up the food. It was raining in earnest as he arrived and the lightning was nearly constant.

Sherlock ascended the stairs and unlocked the door, shocked to find the flat pitch black, the only illumination provided by the frequent bolts of lightning. The storm didn’t seem to have knocked out power, since the stairwell was still lit, so it could possibly be a blown fuse. John could have turned everything off and gone to bed as well, though it was still too early for that, and in any event he would've waited up for Sherlock to bring dinner. 

“John?” he called. “Have we lost power? I'll have to go down and check the breakers to see if any of them have been tripped. I know we have candles around here somewhere...” He set the bag of food down on the floor while he fumbled with the torch app on his phone.

“Sher...lock...”

Sherlock jumped. It was John's voice, but it...wasn't, somehow. It was weak and breathy, as if it had been forced out of him. Sherlock swung the phone towards the voice, and the torch rested on the glassy-eyed stare of John Watson, who was sitting on the kitchen floor, his back to the wall and a broken tea cup near his splayed legs. Sherlock slammed his hand into the kitchen light switch, flooding the room in a fluorescent pallor. Briefly considering how long John had to have been sitting there if the room had gone dark naturally, Sherlock swore and ran to his friend's side and dropped to his knees. “John?” he said, and gently grabbed his wrist, taking his pulse. It beat frantically under his fingertips. John was covered in a cold sweat. It had soaked through his shirt and left his skin cool and clammy. He was shaking fit to break apart, so much that his teeth were chattering. 

Alarmed and trying not to show it, Sherlock kept his voice steady. “John, you need to breathe slower or you'll hyperventilate and pass out. Easy now, breathe with me, in...out...”

John jerked his head toward Sherlock, eyes wide. His hair was dark with sweat, and his breathing was still coming in rapid pants. “I—c-can't. Sher—lock.” A flash of lightning lit up rest of the flat, and the crack of thunder that followed rattled the windows. John's teeth chattered harder and every muscle in his body tensed.

“John. I'm going to sit behind you. You're going to lean against my chest and breathe with me. Okay?”

Thunder roared overhead again and John flinched hard, hunching his shoulders and curling forward. “Please,” he whispered.

Sherlock slid in behind John, noting that while his eyes were still wide and fearful, the corners were pinched in pain. He was hurting himself. Sherlock wrapped his right arm around John's chest and pulled him back into his own. He kept his arm there and said, “All right, follow my breaths. Slow and steady.”

They sat there on the kitchen floor and just breathed. Sherlock could figure out what happened, but was surprised at the severity of John's panic attack. The storm and thunder must have caught him by surprise and triggered it, and it must have derailed him so quickly and completely that he was unable to call for help.

Sherlock didn't know how long they sat there before he felt John's heart rate slowly come down to a more normal level and his breathing was deep and regular. The storm, both of them, had passed.

“Can you...help me up? My arse is asleep,” John said quietly.

Sherlock huffed a laugh and extricated himself from behind John. He pulled the other man carefully to his feet and guided him to the couch. He turned on the lights in the rest of the flat, put the forgotten curry in the fridge and cleaned up the broken tea cup. He went back to the living room where John had his eyes closed and his head leaning against the back of the couch.

“Thanks. It's...been a long time since I...had one that bad.”

“I'm glad I came home when I did. I'm sorry it wasn't sooner.”

John's eyes snapped open and he glared at Sherlock. “Sherlock, no. This wasn't your fault. I could hear it off in the distance, y'know? Thought I'd make myself a cuppa and settle in with some telly and wait it out, but then it was right overhead and...a bomb went off...I dropped the cup. It just...didn't...stop. I remember backing into the corner. And then you came in talking about breakers and candles and I knew I'd be okay. So, thank you.”

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said in a rare moment of vulnerability. “How do you feel?”

“Exhausted. I'm gonna head to bed. Sorry about dinner.” Sherlock guided John to his bedroom instead of John’s. Grateful he didn’t have to ask since he didn’t feel like tackling the stairs to his own room at the moment, John let himself be led. Sherlock helped with the braces and made sure John was settled. John smiled faintly and said, “I feel like you're tucking me in. Next you'll be reading bedtime stories. Can I request Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Goodnight John.” Sherlock said, shaking his head. He went back to the living room and took out his violin. He hadn't played since he'd been back; he'd tuned the instrument and cleaned it, but hadn't taken the time to truly play. He'd been too preoccupied with making sure John was healing properly and making his physical therapy appointments. He took the time now, feeling they could both use its calming effect. 

The music flowed easily and he let it carry his thoughts. Playing the violin allowed his mind to wander. He didn't have to think about what his hands were doing so he thought other things. Such as John's panic attack. Sherlock couldn't honestly say he was surprised; John had been seeing a therapist when they first met and John admitted to him very recently that he thought about suicide while Sherlock was...away. John had nightmares quite frequently when he'd first moved in, but those had lessened, only spiking when a particularly stressful event occurred, most notably after the case at Baskerville and when he was held by Moriarty at the pool. Sherlock himself wasn't immune to nightmares; he certainly had his fair share while traveling across Europe and Asia dismantling Moriarty's web. 

The pure terror that Sherlock had seen in John's eyes tonight was a different beast. That wasn't the John Sherlock was familiar with. Though he'd never had one himself, Sherlock knew what a panic attack was by definition and knew its symptoms. His breathing and heart rate were far too fast, and if Sherlock hadn't arrived home when he did, John would have passed out within another few minutes. The muscle contractions had to have caused him some amount of pain, and he would most likely be sore tomorrow. Had John's PTSD worsened while he'd been away?

Sherlock scowled. He would do whatever he could to protect John from going through that kind of distress again.


	2. Wreckage in the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more in depth on John's state of mind while Sherlock was dead. Mind the tags. Chapter title from "Phoenix" off Polaris by Tesseract

John limped out of the shower the next morning and sat heavily in his chair. Sherlock brought him tea and toast for breakfast. “Thanks. For breakfast and the violin last night. What was it?”

“Corelli's Grosso Concerto in D.”

“It was good. Mellow. Maybe instead of a story, you can do a lullaby,” John said, smiling warmly.

Sherlock unconsciously flexed his fingers. He was out of practice and needed to build up his callouses again, but that was easily remedied. “If you honestly require it, I can play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.'”

John laughed, then winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Physical therapy is going to be a bitch today.”

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

John returned from therapy as he often did, sore and grumpy, but his demeanor brightened when he saw the dinner Sherlock prepared: a roast crusted with rosemary and thyme, and red potatoes with butter, olive oil and the same herbs. John tucked into the meal with gusto, asking “What prompted this?” around a potato.

Sherlock shrugged. “I did the shopping while you were out and picked up the ingredients. It's easy enough to make.”

“It's good.”

The rest of dinner was spent in silence as they ate, even Sherlock cleaned his plate. John insisted on helping put away the dishes afterward with the excuse that he needed to move a little or he would stiffen up. Sherlock allowed it, but the washing up was finished in record time. They both retired to the living room afterward. Sherlock picked up the violin.

John took in a breath, as if preparing himself for something unsavory. Sherlock paused and watched him. 

“I was thinking...”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John did an admirable job of ignoring him and continued, “About last night. I know we've never...talked about my...issues...before.”

Sherlock held up a hand. “John, you don't have to-”

“I know. I need to though. I realized today that I tell my physical therapist more about my nightmares than I tell my flatmate. I...don't like the way that makes me feel. Like I'm hiding something.”

“John,” Sherlock tried again.

“No, let me finish or I'll never say it. We don't do this type of thing, I know. At first I thought it was because my therapist worked with a lot of army blokes and he understood, but that's not it. Even when we first met, you warned me about your violin playing and habit of going silent for days. I didn't warn you about the nightmares and panic attacks. But you...carried on, as if it didn't bother you.”

“It didn't. It doesn't.”

John kept going, as if he didn't hear Sherlock. “So I thought about why. I think at first, I didn't want you to think less of me. It was bad enough you cured my psychosomatic limp that first night, but if you knew I was...broken...in other ways, you wouldn't want to bother.”

“I never thought that for a moment.”

John smiled faintly, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. “Later, it just...never came up. So we didn't talk about it. After you...left, I felt guilty. There was so much we missed out on, so much unspoken. You were—are—my best friend, and there were so many things we didn't know about each other. When we met, you reminded me there was still something for me in this world, a purpose. When you were gone, that purpose was gone. I didn't have anything. Or I thought I didn't. I was so…pissed...at you for leaving, I hated you, and then I felt guilty about being angry. Rather than feel that constant guilt and anger...” he paused and finally met Sherlock’s eyes, left hand trembling, “I sat on the edge of the tub and put my gun in my mouth.”

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face and his stomach do a strange little flip. Not knowing what else to do but follow his instincts, he slid off the couch and knelt next to John's chair and grabbed his hand. John's gaze jerked down in surprise, then back up to Sherlock's pained face. 

“John. I can never apologize enough. I knew it would be...difficult...for you, but I didn't think how much. I swear to you, I will never willingly cause you that much pain again.”

John let out a slow breath. “I know. And I've forgiven you for jumping. I just hope you can forgive me for hating you.”

“There's nothing to forgive. It's all fine, John,” Sherlock, putting as much sincerity into his voice as possible. He hoped John understood.

The tension seemed to bleed out of him and John blew out another breath. He nodded. “Good. I'm glad. I want us to be more open with each other, Sherlock. I want you to know that loud noises sometimes trigger panic attacks. Sometimes it's a particular twinge in my shoulder. Or looking up at tall buildings.” Sherlock winced. “Or the smell of chlorine. Most of the time I can work through it. Sometimes I can't. I don't like to admit it, and I don't like people seeing me like I was last night. Not even you, but...I'm glad you were here.”

“So am I,” Sherlock pushed himself back onto the couch, and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I...am also plagued by nightmares. It's not easy for me to admit to what I consider a weakness in myself, since I should be above such sentimental traps, but they still occur.”

John shook his head. “They're not a weakness. You wouldn't tell me my sentiments or what-have-you are weaknesses, so why are yours different?”

“Because I'm different! My vastly superior intellect should put me above such things!” Sherlock spat derisively.

John rolled his eyes. “That's a load of bollocks and you know it. You're not some creature that doesn't have human emotions, Sherlock, you might have a different way of expressing or feeling them, but you still have them.”

Sherlock stood and started pacing, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke. “I shouldn't! All those...feelings...just get...tangled up inside, and I...don't know what to do with them! They’re useless! I need facts, data! Empirical evidence! Primary sources! Not feelings!” he spat, as if even speaking the word made him somehow inferior.

“Sherlock, sit back down. Now listen, you don't consider me...lesser...for having feelings, do you?”

Sherlock stopped pacing, but didn't sit. He looked at John, “No, for being an idiot. Though less so than the population in general.”

“I thought we were having a moment,” John muttered under his breath. “Sherlock, just because you don't know what to do with feelings doesn't make them a weakness. Unfortunately ‘the population in general’ doesn’t function like a science fair project, so how can I help? You use me as a sounding board at crime scenes, why not for when you're...'tangled’ and don’t know what to do with whatever you’re feeling?” 

Sherlock plopped down on the couch. “You'd do that?”

“You do an admirable job with me already. You help me without realizing you're doing it. You keep me grounded in reality when I feel like things are going out of control, like last night. You can talk to me. About anything. I want you to. Anytime you need to talk through what you’re feeling, no matter how inconsequential it may seem, come to me.”

Sherlock blinked a few times. “I...yes...Okay, I'd like that, I think.” 

/*/*/*/*/*/*/

It was another two weeks before they were able to put their communication resolution to the test. John came home from therapy much more upbeat than usual, and Sherlock detected a different sound to his gait on the stairs. John entered the flat with a flourish of his hands, his right empty of the cane but the left still closely held next to his body due to the shoulder brace.

“Finally free of that bloody boot!” he exclaimed happily. “They still want me to take it easy, so no chasing after criminals across rooftops, but I can go back out again!”

John's exuberance was infectious; Sherlock grinned and said, “Perfect timing. Lestrade just called with a case: dead man with no sign of foul play, but young enough that it's unlikely natural causes. Usually below my notice, but you wanted us to get out. I promise no rooftop chasing required.”

“Great! Let's do it!” John said with far too much enthusiasm about a 3, at most.

They caught a cab and as they were en route to the scene, John pulled up his left pants leg. “Look at this.”

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“I knew I'd lose a bit of muscle mass, but this is ridiculous. It looks like a sodding peg leg!”

“Shall we get you a parrot? Perhaps a gold earring?” Sherlock asked, deadpan.

“Mycroft said you were the one who wanted to be a pirate, don't try and live your fantasies through me!”

Sherlock lost the battle with keeping a straight face and laughed heartily at John's oddly skinny leg. John joined in and they were chuckling and making ridiculous pirate puns as they arrived at the scene. John still had a slight limp, but otherwise gave no outward sign that he had been tortured two months ago by Sebastian Moran.

Lestrade greeted them. “Hey John, good to have you back.”

“Good to be back. He hasn't caused too much trouble, has he?” John asked with a nod at Sherlock, who was wandering around the outside of the residence.

Lestrade waved a hand. “Nah, nothing we can't handle, though I'm glad you're here to wrangle him.” He motioned inside. “Shall we?”

They entered and observed the body in the living room of the home, sprawled on the couch. There was no obvious blood or wounds on the body, a well-dressed man in his late forties. Sherlock got to work as Lestrade went over the details.

“Name's Jason Reynolds. Worked at the local bank as a personal finance consultant. Helped folks get mortgages, car loans, that type of thing. Boss said he was well liked, came in, did his work, had a few regular clients but no one that caused trouble. Wasn't feuding with any of the other employees either. We're running a background check to make sure no one's hiding anything.”

“They aren't,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Right, well, I have procedures to follow. Anyway, parents have been dead a few years, has two younger sisters that live in Edinburgh. We're trying to get a hold of them. Never married, no kids. Wasn't dating anyone recently according to the staff.”

“Hmm.” was all Sherlock offered, moving frenetically around the body and the couch.

“No sign of a struggle or forced entry. He doesn't have any defensive wounds, or any wounds that we found at first glance. Anderson's in the kitchen, checking for poisons.”

“Useless.”

“Sherlock, you can't just drop biting commentary like that and move on. Why is it useless?” Lestrade prodded.

Sherlock straightened from where he was looking under the couch. “First of all, it's Anderson. Anything he does is bound to be useless. Second of all, the body was posed like this. He didn't just sit down and die naturally in this position. Rigor had already started to set in when the body was moved.”

“How do you figure?”

Sherlock pointed. “His foot. It's slightly bent. It's not resting on the floor.”

“I'll be damned.”

Sherlock whirled to John. “How long has he been dead?”

Having expected that question sooner or later, John had done a little investigating of his own. “Maybe thirty-six hours.”

“All right, but that still doesn't explain why poison is a useless idea.”

Sherlock sighed, and glared at Lestrade as if he were dealing with a child. “Reynolds is a big man, 225 pounds, 6 feet tall. Whoever moved him is also a man. Statistically speaking, men don't typically poison their victims. They use other methods.”

“But there's no injuries.”

“Yes there are, you just haven't found them yet. The murder weapon is also most likely in this house.” Sherlock crouched down again and began searching under the rest of the furniture. 

Lestrade shook his head and shot John a long-suffering glance, who shrugged helplessly. Lestrade let them be and joined the forensic team in the kitchen.

John also began looking around, but he didn't really know what he was looking for. Until he found it. Snatching a glove from a passing tech, he gingerly picked the item up. “Sherlock.”

All of Sherlock's attention was immediately on him. “What is it—oh.”

A hypodermic needle, similar to what a diabetic would use for insulin, rested in John's hand. Sherlock spun away from him and hovered over the body again, examining the fingertips. He rolled the sleeves up and checked the crooks of his elbows. 

“Nothing,” he hissed, scrunching up his face in frustration.

“Lestrade!” John called. The DI rejoined them in the living room, looking askance at John, who showed him the needle. He immediately had it collected into evidence. “Have your people found anything that would point to Reynolds being diabetic? Test strips? More needles? Glucose?”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Seemed like he was a pretty healthy guy. Only thing in his medicine cabinet was paracetamol and some plasters. Man didn't even have any prescriptions.”

Sherlock scoffed skeptically and began poking at a nearby bookcase, rifling through the books looking for a hidden compartment. Finding nothing, he moved on to the desk, opening all the drawers and searching those for secret hiding places as well. He kicked a lower drawer shut in frustration when he didn't find anything there either.

“What are you looking for? You think this guy's a drug addict? There isn't a mark on him! I bet he's cleaner than you are!” Anderson spouted from the doorway, leaning on the frame nonchalantly.

Sherlock whirled on him, but before he could retort, there was a quiet “I wouldn't be too sure about that,” from John, who was kneeling on the floor. He had Reynolds' sock off and was holding his foot, pointing at the scarring visible on the dead man's ankle. “He injected it in his feet.” John pulled off the other sock. “Ah, here's the one that killed him, near the ball of the ankle. It's the freshest.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Some addicts do that, inject it into weird places to make easier to hide. Shame,” he quickly averted his gaze as Sherlock met his eyes over the body. “So it was an overdose, but that doesn't explain who moved him later.”

“Probably his dealer. Testing out a new product, came to see how it was going and found his guinea pig dead. Tried to make it look accidental. Not worth our time. Come along John, we've more important things to worry about,” Sherlock said and swept out the door, ignoring Lestrade's “Oi!”

John shrugged a bit sheepishly and stood. “Sorry mate. Looks like you're on your own.” He turned to follow Sherlock.

“I know you will, but keep an eye on him, yeah?” Lestrade said with a nod in Sherlock's direction.

“I'll let you know if we need anything. Thanks Greg.”


	3. Menace of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't do drugs, kids. Chapter title from "Cages" off Polaris by Tesseract

They arrived back at Baker Street just before dusk. Mrs Hudson had left them a shepherd's pie for dinner, which they ate in silence. Or rather, John ate, Sherlock pretended to eat. Sherlock left John to do the washing up and went to the living room where he perched on the couch like a gargoyle, knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

John joined him shortly after. “So, you want to tell me what that was all about?”

“What?”

John raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Why you walked out on the case.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Overdoses are a dime a dozen.”

John conceded the point. “True, but someone usually doesn't come back to pose the body. That's at least a little interesting, isn't it? Enough to get us out of the house for a few hours anyway.”

“No.”

John took a moment to _observe_ Sherlock. His posture wasn't anything too out of the ordinary and neither were his disdainful retorts. So what was it? Sherlock didn't become irritated until the discovery of the needle and subsequent evidence of heroin usage. Anderson's stupid mouth hadn't helped matters either. 

Bracing himself for a battle, John said, “It was the drugs.”

Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly. “It wasn't worth my time. Lestrade could handle it.”

“Probably. That doesn't mean you aren't allowed to be affected.”

Sherlock scowled. “With my history, right?”

John met his glare. “Yes. You're a former addict--”

“User.”

“--and seeing drug paraphernalia and evidence of recent use on someone else can certainly trigger those old cravings.”

Sherlock continued to glower at John, who didn't back down. Sherlock dropped his forehead onto his knees after nearly a minute, mumbling, “Not so old.”

“Tell me.”

“No!” Sherlock barked and came off the couch all at once and began pacing.

“Sherlock,” John kept his voice steady, “Please. Talk to me. I meant it, y'know, to use me as a sounding board when you needed to.”

Sherlock flopped back onto the couch and threw an arm over his eyes. He began speaking, and John had to lean forward to hear him. “Volgograd. Maybe two months before I came back to London. I...hadn't slept in three or four days. I...” he trailed off, and glanced pleadingly at John from under his arm. 

John sympathized with not wanting to lay out all your demons, but bringing them out into the open had helped him. He hoped it would do the same for Sherlock. “It's all right. You can trust me with whatever it is.”

Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose. “I needed...something. I found a dealer and spent most of my remaining cash on...everything he would give me. Heroin.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from John, but he didn't say anything.

“I was finally able to sleep after that but...they found me, and took me to a house.”

“Who?”

Sherlock surged off the couch again. “I don't know! They weren't Moriarty's, that's all I knew. They kept me there for two days, tied to a chair, and injected me with whatever they had. I never found out why. The drugs must've been cut with something, a hallucinogen, since I...saw...heard...things. When they left me alone on the second day, I escaped. I don't know how long I ran, I just wanted to put as much distance between me and that city as possible.” This was all said in one breath, and as Sherlock stopped talking, he was panting, a light sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He turned to John, a bit wild-eyed. “I want it. So much. That warm oblivion, that _silence_ in my head.”

John stood from his chair and went to him, grabbing his upper arms gently. “Hey, it's all right,” he said again. “I've got you. Whenever you feel like this, come to me. We'll work through it together. I can't play the violin, so what can I do for you to take your mind off it? Do you want to try to sleep?”

Sherlock blinked, “You're...not angry?”

“What? Of course not,” John said, appalled at the very suggestion. “What happened and what you did while you were gone are not things I can judge. C'mon, let's put you to bed and I'll see if I can find something online to distract you.”

Sherlock protested a bit at the early hour, but let John lead him to bed. They both changed into pajamas and John pulled Sherlock's desk chair up to the bed and opened his laptop. John settled on unsolved murder synopses, and read those to Sherlock until he finally slipped into a doze, lulled by John's soft voice and that the bed still smelled like John, despite Mrs Hudson changing the linens while they were out. 

*/*/*/*/*/*/*//*/*

His back was on fire and there was no comfortable position he could find that allowed him to sleep. The cuts he'd sustained from escaping under the barbed wire at the military base in Aktobe, Kazakhstan the week before were still weeping blood. They opened every time he moved. 

He staggered out into the night, leaving his safe-house for the moment, hoping the cool night air would ease his back. He was hoping for something else, but tried not to think about the consequences or what his brother would think if he knew what the plan was. He wandered a few blocks before coming upon another man in an alley.

“Looking for something?” the man asked in Russian.

“Whatever this will get me,” Sherlock replied, and shoved the money into the man's hand. He grinned crookedly, and gave Sherlock far less than what he paid for. 

Sherlock didn't care, and ignored the man as he waved goodbye, telling him to have fun. Sherlock went back to the safe-house and prepared his prize. He could get three, maybe four uses out of the vial he'd bought. That should last him to the Ukrainian border. He pulled 3ml into the needle and tied a tourniquet around his upper left arm. He could try to hide it, he thought, but what was the point. The new mark would get lost in the others and he didn't expect anyone would come to berate him for this latest indiscretion anyway.

He slid the needle in and depressed the plunger, driving the drug into his veins. The effect was almost immediate: he warmed up a bit and became so drowsy he fumbled with removing the tourniquet. He flopped gracelessly face first onto the bed to save his back, but he felt no pain for the first time in over a week. His breathing slowed and evened out as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Sherlock was roughly pulled from his peaceful slumber by hands jerking him upright and forcing him into a seated position on a metal chair. He groggily tried to fight back, but an injection into his arm stopped his struggling.

“What--?” he started, and tried to focus. There were three...no four men in this room. His head lolled backward and he forced himself to hold it steady. “What did you give me?” he tried again in Russian.

“Something special!” one man exclaimed, far too close to his ear and Sherlock flinched away. There was laughter and a slamming door, then nothing.

He sat there, unable to sleep. His back felt as if it were being flayed open each time he shifted in the chair. His hands were bound tightly together behind him, so hunching forward wasn't an option. Sherlock didn't know how long he sat there, maybe only a few hours, before one of the men came back and gave him another injection. Over the next several hours he was drugged 6 more times. In the lulls, Sherlock was vaguely able to deduce that the drug he'd been given wasn't straight heroin and the seller from the alley had only sold him decent drugs to get him to this point. These new injections were cut with something, a hallucinogenic at least. He needed to get away before they overdosed him. He worked at his bonds, causing his wrists to bleed. It felt like all his blood was gushing from his wrists. The sounds in the room were amplified, every shift of his body against the metal chair was like a roaring beast, every drop of blood from his wrists crashed like an ocean wave, and even the smallest shaft of light poking through the dilapidated house was blinding. His head ached, he could barely keep his eyes open but each time he slid toward oblivion, the pain in his back, the grinding of the chair against the floor as he slumped forward, the smell of blood and urine, or the _fear_ , would bring him back from the brink. 

Sherlock didn't know how long he'd been trapped here before the bonds on his wrists gave way and he was finally able to stumble blindly out of the house. Adrenaline poured through him and he found the strength to run. He didn't stop until he reached the outskirts of the city. He didn't dare go back to his safe house to collect his meager belongings, and spent the night huddled next to the generator of a restaurant. It kept him from freezing to death. He would have to contact Mycroft somehow in the morning. He put his back against the brick of the building, not caring how much it stung, and drew his knees to his chest, dropping his head wearily onto them. For the first time since leaving London, he felt the burn of tears at his eyes. He sniffed and willed them away, and shivered the whole night through.

/*//*/*//*/****/*/

John woke with a snort, slightly disoriented. His lap was warm and sweaty, and he looked down to see he still had the computer on. He shut it off and set it on the desk. He rolled his neck and shoulders, reaching up with his right hand to rub his face. He could hear his physical therapist berating him for falling asleep in a chair. He could hear something else too, coming from the bed at his knees. 

John looked carefully at Sherlock, trying to make out his features in the dark. Sherlock was on his side, curled up in the fetal position and...crying? John stood slowly and turned the desk lamp on, aiming it away from them. The diffuse glow allowed him to see a little better without being blinding, and it wouldn't blind Sherlock if he woke up. John leaned over. Sherlock was shaking and seemed to be sniffling, but there were no tears. 

“Sherlock,” John said softly. He didn't get a response. He reached out and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, which was becoming damp with sweat. “Sherlock,” he called again. “You're safe in London. Baker Street. It's John. I'm here. You're safe. Wherever you are, it's just a dream. You're here, with me. Safe, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's breathing hitched and his eyes snapped open, unseeing at first. “Easy, Sherlock. It's John. You're safe.” John was still carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair gently. Sherlock uncoiled from his tense posture and rolled onto his back, taking careful, measured breaths. John's hand dropped and he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sherlock? All right?”

“...No.” Sherlock reached up and grabbed John's right arm, dragging him down with a surprised “gah!”

“Stay. Please.”

John blinked a few times as his brain caught up. “All...right.” He was half in the bed, so he swung his legs up and covered himself with the now shared blanket. “Okay?”

Sherlock rolled toward him and threw an arm across his chest. John stiffened for a moment, but relaxed at Sherlock's breathy “Yeah.”

He lay awake for a while, trying to sort this out in his head. John would be the first to admit that his and Sherlock's relationship was a bit...odd, but he hadn't pictured Sherlock using him as a teddy bear and cuddling with him. Or anyone, for that matter. Certainly not willingly. It spoke to the level of trust Sherlock had in John, and John was...flattered wasn't quite the word he wanted, it was more than that. Sherlock didn't let people in that closely, and for John to be the one...The more he thought about it, the more he realized he wasn't put off by their growing physicality. He loved Sherlock, and he didn't think it was a huge secret, though he always considered it a platonic kind of love, the kind you have for your best mate. 

John scoffed quietly to himself. Most people don’t go off the rails and put a gun in their mouth when their best mate dies. So maybe a little more than platonic. What then? Was he in _love_ with Sherlock? John frowned deeply and looked down at the sleeping man next to him. They'd slept in the same bed before, of course, on cases when the need arose, but they always stayed firmly on their side of the bed. What was different now? What changed? Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead and subsequent destruction of Moriarty's web? Did that mean he was more free with his...affections? That didn't make any sense. That first night, Sherlock said he was married to his work and wasn't open to pursuing any romantic relationships. It wasn't Moriarty then, but something else. 

John sighed and wiggled his right arm free from between his and Sherlock's bodies. Sherlock snuggled closer, tucking his head down. He reached out to turn off the desk lamp, then rested his arm over Sherlock's head and resumed gently playing with his hair. Whatever the reason for this change, John found he didn't much care. He enjoyed being with Sherlock and liked this new-found closeness. He'd take the rest as it came.


	4. Colors that You Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you prepared for an awkward conversation with John and Sherlock about sex? Chapter title from "Hexes" again

It was still dark when he awoke again, feeling eyes on him. John went completely still and cracked his eyes open, startled to see Sherlock wide awake and watching him. He didn't have his arm around John anymore, but they were still quite close.

“Huh. Little creepy, that.”

“You stayed,” Sherlock said, a note of wonder in his voice.

John rolled slightly to face him. “Well, yeah. You asked me to. I wasn't going to abandon you.”

“I didn't think...” Sherlock trailed off. “Thank you. For staying.”

“Mmhmm. What time is it anyway, why are we awake?”

“Four.”

“Yeah, definitely going back to sleep.” He burrowed a little under the covers and sighed contentedly, drifting off again.

At least the sun was out and he could hear birds the next time he woke, but Sherlock was either still watching him or watching him again, he didn't know which was worse, although this time he was propped up on an elbow.

“Sherlock, you can't stare people awake, that's...really weird,” John said through a huff of laughter.

Sherlock's brow was furrowed, and he looked almost angry, so John sobered and focused on him.

“You...don't mind this?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. “No. You needed me.”

“I...no one's cared like that...about me...before.”

John shoved himself up and back to lean against the headboard. “Sherlock, what...”

Sherlock mimicked his position. “I feel...I don't know what...this is not what I...”

“Oi, easy, Sherlock. You don't have to explain anything to me. I've given up trying to put our relationship into words. Evidently neither one of us are normal, so this--” he waved his hand between them “--isn't going to be normal. It's fine.”

Sherlock shook his head vehemently, “No, you're normal, dreadfully so. I'm the one who doesn't deserve --”

John cut him off bitingly. “Don't even finish that sentence.”

“I don't deserve you.”

That was not what John was expecting. He met Sherlock's clear gray-green eyes. “Me?”

“When I was traveling, I was alone for most of it. I talked to you. We would have full conversations. Sometimes I would forget you weren't really there, but it didn't matter. Just having the ghost of you in my head was enough. I realized that I...needed you more than I let myself believe. Since my return and the whole thing with Moran, you've never once turned your back on me. Despite your initial anger, you've been there. I...don't know how to repay that loyalty. I want...”

John placed his hand on Sherlock's knee while keeping eye contact. “Sherlock. You don't have to 'repay' me. My friendship, loyalty, love, whatever you want to call it, is given freely. I don't need anything in return. Except possibly a separate fridge for body parts, but other than that, you have me. I will always be here.”

Sherlock blinked at him for several seconds.

“All right?” John prompted, growing a little concerned at Sherlock's continued silence. The man still seemed to be struggling in expressing his feelings.

“I...I want...I want to show you how much I...” He suddenly took a deep breath and lunged forward, planting a kiss square on John's mouth. It was quick and dry and lips only. He leaned back almost immediately, staring fearfully into John's wide eyes.

For his part, all of John's thought processes had screeched to a complete halt before slowly, ploddingly coming back online again. Sherlock had kissed him. Sherlock was watching him for some sort of reaction. Sherlock was slowly withdrawing the longer he didn't give one. John gave himself a mental shake and re-focused on Sherlock's eyes. His pupils were slightly dilated. Sherlock's words to The Woman came back to him: “I took your pulse.” John slid his hand from where it was still resting on Sherlock's knee and gently wrapped his fingers around the other man's wrist. Sherlock glanced down briefly, then met John's eyes again. He let go.

Oh. Hadn't he just made the decision to take this as it came? Fuck it.

John licked his lips, took a steadying breath, and kissed Sherlock. He tilted his head a little, and let his tongue prod at Sherlock's mouth, which opened slightly. His own tongue met John's tentatively. 

Sherlock pulled back after a few seconds, looking at John in awe.

John chuckled, trying to alleviate some of the awkwardness he felt. “I wish everyone looked at me like that after a kiss.”

“John...I...Why did you kiss me?”

John's eyebrows rose. “You kissed me first, remember?” Seeing Sherlock's put upon expression, he added quietly, “I wanted to. I've been thinking too, y'know? We've been dancing around each other since you came back. Why not see where this goes?”

“You're not gay.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and sighed. “I don’t know what this makes me. I’m too old for a sexuality crisis. I’m trying not to worry about it right now.” His hand dropped. “And what about you?”

“You...mean too much to me. More than you know.” 

John took in a surprised breath. “I admit, Sherlock, I didn't see this coming from you, 'Mr self-professed sociopath.' I never believed that, but you never seemed...interested...in a relationship, of any kind, before. Why now?”

Sherlock grabbed John's left hand and just held it, running his thumb across the knuckles in an uncommonly gentle gesture. “Once I understood how much you meant to me, it was too late; I was gone after Moriarty. I thought I'd lost any chance of having...something with you. I convinced myself that even if I returned, you wouldn't be interested in continuing our previous partnership, much less anything else. But in the past few months, just being here, showed me that I'd been wrong, that you still cared for me in a way that no one else has or probably will. You said recently that we missed out on so much of each other while I was gone; I'd like to make up for that.”

John's eyes widened and he unconsciously tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand. “What…What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Anything and everything you're willing to give me, John.”

John's brain ground to a halt again. Did Sherlock just proposition him?

“John? I'd just...I'd like to kiss you again. If that's okay.”

John gave his head a shake to clear it. A kiss. He could do that. “Yes.”

This one was just as tentative and they parted after a few seconds again. They sat staring at each other before John slapped his knee. “Right. I think I could use some tea. It's probably past time we got up anyway.” He left the warm bed and Sherlock, headed to the kitchen, and began preparing tea. 

Sherlock was a bit disappointed but not surprised at John's abrupt departure, concerned that the new direction of their relationship would drive John away. When Sherlock woke from the nightmare to John’s reassuring voice and a gentle hand in his hair, he’d wanted more of that warmth. He pulled John into bed purely based on that thought, and when John was next to him, Sherlock thought about the night he held John through a panic attack and risked putting an arm around him, if only to feel that strong heartbeat again. He hadn't lied to John about needing him; if anything, he understated it. John was right though, he'd never been one for romantic relationships, so he could see why the other man was questioning him. It didn't matter now, he knew he wanted to be with John, in whatever way he was comfortable. Given John's previous adamant declarations of being “not gay,” and the way he just left, Sherlock wasn't holding out hope for much. He sighed, and went to the living room to await his doom.

John puttered around in the kitchen, making tea and toast. His nerves weren't going to allow him to eat anything heavier. He scrubbed a hand over his face. It was one thing to decide to take things as they came and quite another to put into practice. This was moving too fast. Well, if he thought about it, not really. They'd been living together for two years, and then Sherlock was away for another two and a half, and now they'd been together again for three months. It wasn't as if this was a whirlwind romance. Romance. Was he really going to start a romance with Sherlock?

The kettle whistled. John nodded once, straightened his posture, spread some jam on a few slices of toast, and brought them into the living room like a man going to war. He set a plate down near Sherlock and sat in his own chair, sipping tea.

They sat in silence for several minutes, avoiding the elephant in the room. Or waiting to see who would break first.

“If you want to leave, I'll understand,” Sherlock said, finally cutting through the oppressive quiet.

John looked up at him in shock and shook his head like a dog. “No no no no, Jesus, Sherlock, I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. No, I meant what I said about seeing where this goes.” He averted his eyes. “I guess...I hadn't expected it to be real so fast, y'know?”

Sherlock relaxed slightly at John's refusal to leave. “I think I understand. Sitting in bed next to each other and occasionally touching each other isn't the same as kissing. Or sex.”

At the very nice opening Sherlock gave him, John took the plunge, turning slightly pink as he spoke. “About that. How...experienced...are you? I know what Mycroft implied, but...”

“Are you asking if I'm a virgin? The answer is no, though it wasn't an especially pleasurable experience for either party. Neither of us reached orgasm and she went on to...well, she made sure no one else wanted me.”

“She?”

“Yes, John, she. It was a girl at school. It was during the encounter that I realized women were...not interesting...to me.”

John nodded and took a gulp of tea against the dryness in his throat. “So, have you had sex with men?”

Sherlock looked at John as if he should already know the answer, but still replied, “No. No one else was interesting either. Until you. But I understand the mechanics of gay sex, and I assume you do as well.” 

John went scarlet up to his ears. “Sherlock, I'm a doctor and I spent three tours in Afghanistan where 95% of the army's population were men and those men had needs. Yes, I understand the 'mechanics' and I can't believe we’re having this conversation!”

“I've seen you interact with your previous girlfriends. This is what you do, John. You make sure your partner is comfortable and fully consenting before pursuing a sexual relationship.” John squeaked a bit. Sherlock pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. “John, you've never...with a man.”

It was odd how Sherlock could talk about himself in extremely blunt language, but he censored himself when it came to John.

“No. This is all very...I don't know. I've always been secure enough to recognize when a man is handsome. I don't have a problem saying you're handsome. I never wanted to try anything with a man, though. But it's you, so touching is...okay? Kissing you this morning, also okay. More...I don't know right now. I'm open to...other things, I think...” John trailed off, frowning deeply and not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't take it because John might be turning purple, “John, stop. There doesn't have to be 'other things' yet. This is different for me too, so this, what we have now, is fine.”

John let out a breath and visibly relaxed.

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you really think I'm handsome?”

John whipped the Union-Jack pillow at him. “Tosser.”

They finished their breakfast in only slightly awkward silence until Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text. He made a face and a disgusted noise in his throat as he read it. 

“Mycroft?”

“A car will be here in twenty minutes to take me to the Diogenes Club.” Sherlock got up and headed to the bathroom. 

“You're going rather willingly,” John said as the bathroom door closed.

“I owe him, as he repeatedly reminds me,” Sherlock replied venomously, around what John assumed was a toothbrush.

“Anything I can do?”

Sherlock's head poked out the door. “Could you grab my pants? Also dinner. Don't know how late I'll be.”

Far too late for dinner as it turned out. Mycroft kept him all damned day, and he didn't make it home until nearly midnight. John was already in (his own) bed. Sherlock went to bed, and even though it had only been one night, he missed John's warmth. He frowned. This was going to be hard, harder than any case. It involved too many feelings, something neither of them were very good at, Sherlock especially. He thought he loved John, but he didn't understand how that could be possible. And what would John think about Sherlock’s feelings for him? He said he was open to exploring this, but Sherlock also didn't think it was possible for John to love someone like him. Sherlock didn’t even know what did people did when they were in love. Besides sex, since John made it clear he wasn't ready for that step yet and Sherlock didn't think he was either. Did they go on dates? Should he ask John to go out with him? He considered the cases they went on together similar to a date, but John pointed out once long ago that his idea of a date and Sherlock's idea of a date were very different. That ruled out Chinese circuses. Dinner was a relatively safe bet, and something they did often enough. But where? A slow grin spread over Sherlock's face. He knew exactly where to take John on a date. Gaining confidence in the plan forming in his head, he finally settled down to sleep.

Sherlock's shit luck at timing continued into the next day. When he woke up, John was already gone to physical therapy. He stomped around the flat moodily, prompting a text from Lio that simply read “stfu.” Once he considered the source, he was able to puzzle out the acronym. He didn't deign to reply. He also didn't reply to Mycroft's repeated texts. He and his “matter of national security” could wait. 

John arrived late afternoon, bounding into the flat. Had he been a lesser man, Sherlock would have been startled at his boisterous appearance, but instead only raised an eyebrow. John was grinning from ear to ear and raised both arms out parallel to the floor.

“Freedom!” he nearly shouted. “I see the orthopedist for a recheck in a month, but until then, no more brace!” He rolled his left shoulder experimentally. “I'd say 'as good as new' but...as good as 'pre-Moran' will have to do.”

Sherlock smiled back at him, genuinely happy to see John back in one piece. “Well, we should celebrate. Dinner? How about Angelo's? We haven't been there since I've been back.”

“Perfect. I'm starving. The final workup was pretty intense and they didn't give me a whole lot of time for a break. As one of the Americans we came across in Afghanistan said: 'I could eat the ass-end off a dead rhinoceros.'”

Sherlock shook his head with a grimace. “Charming.”


	5. Familiar Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earning that E rating. Chapter title from "Cages" again.

Upon arrival at the restaurant, Angelo nearly tackled Sherlock, embracing him in a fierce hug. The burly Italian lifted Sherlock off his feet for a moment in his excitement. Once he was calm enough, Sherlock whispered something to him that John didn't catch and they were ushered to the window table.

“Huh, just like the first time we were here,” John said.

“Mmm,” was all Sherlock said. Menus, a bottle of wine, and a candle appeared moments later.

“What's with the candle?” John asked, eyebrow raised, as he ordered, hardly even needing to look at the menu. They'd been here so often he had it memorized, even after all this time.

“Just like the first time we were here,” Sherlock repeated and placed his order, “I thought I would recreate the night of our first case.” 

“No murderous cabbies, I hope,” John said, and took a sip of wine.

“No...just this.” Sherlock reached across the table and put his hand on John's, which was still holding the stem of the wine glass. 

John looked at Sherlock to their hands and back to Sherlock. His eyes widened slightly. “Are-are we on a date?” Sherlock's mouth twitched, fighting off a smile and didn't answer, watching John process the information. “Oh. This is...this is great. That explains the candle then. Who would have thought, Sherlock Holmes on a date. You big softy,” John teased with a gentle smile, tightening his fingers around Sherlock's.

Dinner continued in that vein, with flirting and casual touches. They talked, mostly about John's shoulder. He'd probably need a full shoulder replacement within the next ten to fifteen years, but that was something that had been on the table since he'd been shot in Afghanistan. They spoke about cases and how to reintroduce Sherlock to the world, and decided to rely on Lestrade for the moment and slowly build up their online presence again through John's blog. Once they finished dinner, John suggested they walk through Regent's Park.

He paused at a bench. “This is where I came across Mike, and he took me to Bart's to introduce us.” He smiled fondly. “Had someone told me that I'd end up living with a mad genius detective who plays violin and borrows items from morgues, I would've had them committed.” The smile dropped. “I almost didn't stop when Mike called to me. I had checked out, wanted nothing to do with the world.” He looked up at Sherlock. “If I hadn't met you, I wouldn't be here.”

“Then I'm very glad we met. You've made me a better man, shown me that caring doesn't have to be a weakness. I wouldn't have beaten Moriarty without you. You're my conductor of light; even in my darkest moments, the thought of coming back to you kept me going.” He took a deep breath and met John’s eyes. “I...I love you, John.”

John's eyes widened and he froze, just staring at Sherlock for several seconds. He sucked in a breath through his nose and took Sherlock's hand. “Let's go home.”

It was an awkward walk home, John nearly pulling Sherlock along as he kept a brisk pace. They didn't speak any more and John didn't let go of Sherlock's hand until they were back in 221B. 

“Sherlock.” John said as they shed their coats. “You're my best friend. I would die for you. I would live for you, and have, even when I thought there was nothing worth living for. I'd do anything for you. You are...the best man I've ever known and you mean so much to me. I just...I hope I can live up to your expectations. I don't know what I'd do if you left again. Because I love you too.”

John closed the distance between them, pulled Sherlock's head down, and kissed him. It started off as timid as their first two since Sherlock was taken a bit by surprise, but as John's left hand drifted from the back of his head to the back of his neck, Sherlock deepened the kiss. Not knowing what else to do with his hands, he settled them on the hem of John's jumper. Sherlock made a noise in his throat as John's thumb made slow circles where his right hand was resting on his hip. 

He reared back abruptly and tugged at John's jumper. “Can you take this off?” he asked, somewhat breathlessly.

John nodded and pulled the piece of clothing off as if it offended him. Sherlock fingered the top button of the shirt underneath. “Can I? I'd like to...see you.” John nodded again as Sherlock began undoing buttons. John reached for Sherlock's shirt and began doing the same, the uncertainty of “other things” melting away under Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock finished with John's buttons first and swept the shirt off his shoulders, exposing the newly healed pink surgical scars on his left shoulder as well as the solar flare of the original bullet wound. He touched it gently, watching John's face for any sign of discomfort. He lowered his mouth to it and kissed it reverently, feeling the rubbery scar tissue under his lips. John sucked in a breath and stepped back.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you,” Sherlock said quickly.

“No, you didn't. Just a surprise. Most people avoid that. It's...not very attractive.”

“It's part of you, just like this one,” Sherlock said, and spread his palm over the scar Moran left on his abdomen, feeling the muscles jump under his hand. He pressed another light kiss to John's shoulder. “This one's almost gone,” he said, tracing the other cut Moran left, the fading stripe that started at the hollow of John's throat and ended at his navel. “They prove you're a survivor. You're strong, indomitable, and I wouldn't have you any other way.”

John exhaled through his mouth and stepped closer to Sherlock, finally divesting him of his shirt, uncovering Sherlock's own scars. “We make quite the pair.” He ran a slightly shaky hand across Sherlock's chest, grazing a nipple, wrenching a groan from Sherlock. 

“John,” he breathed, and began kissing his way down John's chest and stomach, following the fading scar and the pale blond hair that led to his waist, sinking slowly to his knees. It took John until Sherlock started fumbling with his belt to realize what was happening.

“Oooh fuck. Sherlock, you--”

He cut off a loud moan, slapping a hand over his mouth to stifle it and knees nearly buckling as Sherlock took him into his mouth. He rested his other hand on Sherlock's head, tangling his fingers in the curls. John was going to last an embarrassingly short time, but he managed to hold out until one of Sherlock's hands, which had been gripping his hips, started fondling his balls.

John's eyes widened, his fingers tightened in Sherlock's hair, and he tried to pull him off. “Sherlock, Sherlock, shit, I'm--!”

Sherlock swallowed as John's orgasm pulsed through him. He gently licked John's softening cock and let it fall from his mouth, then sat back on his heels, breathing heavily. He glossed his tongue over his lips. He stood, swaying slightly, and grabbed John's wrist as he reached for Sherlock's pants. He shook his head. “Not necessary.”

John cocked his head. “I think it's only fair that I--” he looked down, taking in the wet spot at Sherlock's groin. “Did you--?

Sherlock turned pink. “Yes, when you did.”

“Without touching yourself?” Sherlock nodded, blushing harder. “Jesus fuck, that's—that's bloody incredible.” John pulled Sherlock's head down for a kiss. He could taste himself in Sherlock's mouth, which was a little strange. He’d kissed women after they’d given him a blow-job, and didn’t remember that particular flavor. He shook his head, refocusing. They were both still breathing heavy, and John was curious to see more of Sherlock. “Why don't we get in the shower? We've, ah, worked up a bit of a sweat.” He suppressed a wince at how cheesy that sounded.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and went to the bathroom. He removed his soiled clothes, turned on the shower, and got in. He was a little startled when John joined him, and almost felt the need to cover his naked body. John seemed to be appraising him. He could feel himself blushing again.

John raised an eyebrow, taking in Sherlock’s flat planes and sharp angles. There was nothing soft or curvy, nothing that made him "womanly." John was a little surprised to find himself okay with that. Sherlock was handsome, as he told the man before, but seeing him like this, faintly pink and wet from the hot shower, was more erotic than he’d expected. He stepped into the shower. “Hand me your shampoo.”

Sherlock complied and as John lathered up his hair, remarked, “You seem very attached to my hair.”

“Hmm. It's softer than I expected. It's very...you. I can't picture you with any other hair. Don't tell me you had a Mohawk in your rebellious teen years.”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Rinse,” John ordered and Sherlock stuck his head under the spray as John moved to the side. Sherlock's back was to John, and though John had seen the scars littering his back before, he frowned at them. He put his hand on four short scars between Sherlock's shoulder blades. “Can you tell me where these are from?” he asked quietly.

“Kazakhstan. I had to crawl under a barbed wire fence to escape a military compound.”

John leaned forward and planted open-mouthed kisses on each one. “These are part of you too. They prove that Moriarty couldn't beat you. That.you.would.come.back.to.me.” he said, punctuating each word with a kiss across Sherlock's back. He reached around and splayed his hand across Sherlock's lower abdomen, dragging his fingertips through pubic hair to Sherlock's hardening cock. Sherlock whined low in his throat and leaned back against John. “Turn around,” John said, grabbing Sherlock's fancy body wash. He poured some into his hand and wrapped it around both their members, jerking slowly. 

“Oh God,” Sherlock moaned, dropping his forehead on John's shoulder. John nuzzled his neck, kissing hungrily up to his jaw and back down, finding Sherlock's sensitive spots. He discovered Sherlock was especially responsive near the hollow of his throat. He alternated between sucking and laving his tongue over the area. John may have had no experience with men, but erogenous zones were erogenous zones, no matter the body, and he knew how to work them. He jerked them off faster, dragging his thumb over the heads of their cocks, reveling in Sherlock's breathy moans. The normally stoic man was more vocal than John was expecting.

Sherlock was nearly rutting into his hand, and even though both of them came not ten minutes ago, they weren't going to last much longer. “John, harder, faster,” Sherlock panted.

John obliged, and attached his mouth to one of Sherlock's nipples, running his tongue roughly over it. Sherlock _squealed_ and came hard, spilling over John's hand and triggering John's own orgasm.

They stood for a few moments, catching their breath and letting the remnants swirl down the drain. 

“Holy shit.”

John laughed at the rare expletive. “Yeah. Let's go to bed.” At Sherlock’s surprised look, John held his hands out. “To sleep. I'm not that young anymore. I don't think I have another one in me.”

They turned off the shower, dried themselves and dressed, heading to Sherlock's bed afterward. Sherlock snuggled around John again, making him the little spoon. He kissed the back of John's neck. “Goodnight John.”

John smiled softly, and listened to Sherlock's breathing even out as the other man drifted off. The smile faded a little as he began thinking. Jesus, what had he gotten himself into. He was on the other side of 40; wasn't it too late to have an identity crisis? A sexual relationship with another man. With Sherlock. He enjoyed himself, of course, and he enjoyed pleasing Sherlock. He hadn't lied when he said he loved Sherlock. He blushed furiously thinking back on his words and actions from earlier. He felt like a teenager with his first crush, but everything he'd said and done to Sherlock had been real. This wasn't a one time fling. He could see himself with Sherlock for a long time. Yeah, he was used to pleasing a woman's body, but he could learn Sherlock's body, and by God he'd enjoy learning every inch of it. Satisfied with that conclusion, he pushed himself deeper against Sherlock and fell asleep.

John woke to a body pressing him to the bed. He yawned and opened his eyes, but wasn't even able to close his mouth before Sherlock clamped his lips over it. Their tongues battled for a moment before John pushed him back by the shoulders. 

“Not that I don't appreciate the enthusiasm, Sherlock, but can you at least wait until I'm fully awake?”

Sherlock slid his hand back to John's groin. “Seems plenty awake.” Sherlock straightened, straddling John's hips and rocking gently.

John clenched his jaw and gripped Sherlock's thighs roughly. “You bloody wanker.”

Sherlock only grinned a little ferally at him, grasped the waistband of his pajamas, and yanked them down, sliding his body down with them. John pushed himself up onto his elbows in time to watch Sherlock swallow his cock down to the root before gagging and pulling back, leaving about an inch which he wrapped his long fingers around. He tried a few more times to deep-throat John but kept gagging. 

“Stop,” John said with a moan. Sherlock pulled him out of his mouth, but continued tonguing the head and slit. “You don't have to fit me all in--”

“John, shut up,” Sherlock said, and began bobbing his head over the glans. John lifted and spread his knees and tried to keep from arching down Sherlock's throat. He could feel one of Sherlock's hands on the base of his cock, holding him steady, but he had no idea where the other one was until he felt cool fingers just behind his balls. He hissed as the fingers began to rub his perineum. He released a long “oh” of air. Sherlock caught his eyes and let John's cock fall from from his mouth with a wet slap. “Come for me, John,” he whispered before engulfing John's member again. 

It didn't take long. John spilled down Sherlock's throat with a shout and a jerk, knocking his head against the headboard. Sherlock was still laying between John's legs, breathing deeply and waiting for him to come down.

“Christ,” John muttered, rubbing the back of his head. He paused and watched Sherlock for a moment, who seemed content to lay there for a minute. 

Making a decision, he flipped them so Sherlock had his back on the bed. Sherlock let out a huff of annoyance at being moved so roughly but it turned into a moan as John palmed him through his pajamas. He pulled them down, freeing Sherlock's cock. It was longer and thinner than John's; of course, everything about Sherlock was long and thin and even though John was feeling brave, there was no way he was going to get that all in his mouth.

Sherlock seemed to read his expression. “You don't have to.” He was also propped up on his elbows, watching John with such undisguised lust that John didn't even think about it and took the head in his mouth. It tasted and smelled vaguely of the body wash they used last night, but also the salty bitterness of pre-come. Thinking about what he liked, he swirled his tongue around a few times and dipped his head lower, coming back up slowly and dragging his lips. He pushed Sherlock's legs further apart, releasing his cock and peppering his inner thighs with soft kisses. He alternated between legs a few times, noting how Sherlock's hands were fisted in the sheets. He turned his attention back to Sherlock's leaking member, lifting it and running his lips along the vein underneath and swirling his tongue under the corona. He put the head back in his mouth and sank down as far as he could, using his hands for what he couldn't reach. One of Sherlock's hands made its way the back of his head. He wouldn't lie, that made him a little nervous, but he trusted Sherlock not to gag him.

“John...I'm close.”

John flattened his tongue against the head and hummed a bit. Sherlock's balls tightened against his groin and John hauled his mouth off as the first shot went straight up and landed on Sherlock's belly. The next few landed above Sherlock's pubic hair, and the rest spilled over John's hand as he slowly stroked Sherlock through the aftershocks. He cleaned them up with someone's discarded shirt and laid down next to Sherlock, who had flopped back against the pillows, eyes closed.

“I wouldn't expect you to do anything you're not ready for, so don't feel obligated to perform fellatio,” he said without opening his eyes.

“I'm not doing anything I don't want to do. This is... _way_ outside my area of expertise, yeah, but I want to do this. _With you._ ”

At John's vehemence, Sherlock opened his eyes and met his gaze. 

“This is okay, Sherlock. I know what I want.”

Sherlock's face lit up, and John would savor that look for eternity. If he had to reassure the man that he was worth John's love daily for the rest of his life, John would do it just to see that expression.

“Now, how about some breakfast,” he said, and gave Sherlock a quick kiss.


	6. Dangerous to Explore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, it's a plot. Chapter title from "Messenger" off Polaris by Tesseract

They sat at the kitchen table a short while later, John having prepared a nice fry-up. Sherlock's phone started buzzing, which he initially ignored, but when it became incessant, he finally looked at it. 

“Ugh!”

John chuckled and took a bite of sausage. “Mycroft?” 

The door swung open and John jumped. “Good morning, gentlemen. Well, you're not dead so there's no reason for you to be ignoring my calls, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft get out. You're ruining breakfast.”

Mycroft rocked back and forth on his heels, hands behind his back. “I can wait until you're finished.”

Sherlock pushed his plate away. “I'm finished. I suddenly don't have an appetite.”

“Tea, Mycroft?” John offered graciously, ignoring Sherlock’s betrayed glare.

“Thank you, John.” He took a seat in John's chair while Sherlock and John sat on the couch.

“What's this all about? You've been hounding Sherlock for a few days now.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “He hasn't told you? Interesting.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock warned, voice low.

“I need my dear brother to solve a murder. Or four.”

John turned to Sherlock. “Four unsolved murders? When were you going to tell me?”

“I was busy,” he said with a pointed look. John tried to keep his face from going red and giving them away to Mycroft.

“Yes, well, you don't appear to be busy now,” Mycroft pulled a file from his jacket. “Everything you need to know. Will you take the case?”

“Wait, what is this about?”

“There is a predator targeting the House of Lords. No Lords have been injured or killed directly; but rather their assistants. Nothing has been taken, no secrets compromised, but with four bodies in seven days, we feel it's only a matter of time before one of them becomes a victim. Security has been increased, of course, and we've dug deep into the staffers' backgrounds, but haven't been able to find any link between them other than that they work for a member of Parliament. This has all been kept very hush-hush; no media reports and minimal NSY presence. Which is where you come in, brother mine. All four bodies are currently waiting at St Barts with Miss Hooper for you to investigate. The car's downstairs; we can go any time.”

Sherlock looked at John and seemed to take his measure. John frowned. “What's that for? If you're worried about me, don't be. I am perfectly fine. I have a clean bill of health and I'm free to go traipsing across London hunting down serial killers again.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at them.

Sherlock sighed. “Fine, let's get this over with.”

The trip was short but uncomfortable. John had the feeling that Mycroft knew something was up, but hadn't put it all together yet. When they arrived at Bart's, John made a point to look down and make his way quickly inside. Even with Sherlock right next to him, the vision of him falling from the roof still haunted him. 

Sherlock took his elbow. “All right?” 

“Yeah, fine,” he said, clenching his fists to keep his hands from shaking. 

The three of them filed into the morgue where Molly was waiting. Since Sherlock's return and learning that Molly played some part in faking his death, John had been a little cool to her, but tried to put that aside for the case. 

The four bodies lay side by side on autopsy slabs. “What's their causes of death?” Sherlock said without any greeting.

Molly flipped through her notes. “Um, Brian Kilkenny, 24, drowning. He was found in the Thames off Westminster Pier. Initially thought it was a suicide until the other one came in. Moira Moon, 35, blunt trauma to the head. Fractured her skull. I found pieces of Westminster Bridge in the wound. Stephen McIlroy, 27, strangulation. He was found in Parliament Square Gardens.” She stepped to the last body and paused. “Uh, James Fredericks 30, uh...decapitation. Found in Westminster Station.”

John turned to Mycroft. “How the hell are you keeping this out of the media? Four brutal murders around Parliament and no one's said or seen anything? I don't know whether to be impressed or scared.”

Mycroft tutted. “No need to worry John. It's all well in hand.”

John looked at him incredulously as he slipped out of the morgue.

“I'll need the detailed reports.”

“Of course,” Molly said, and handed the files over.

“Anything else?” Sherlock prompted as Molly fidgeted.

“Well, actually, I saw...I don't know, I'm sure it's nothing.”

“Molly, you're a professional, you're trained to observe things. What did you see?” John said as Sherlock sighed and looked at his watch. Some things never changed.

“Well, um, all the bodies had a mark. The same mark, but in different places. I took pictures, so they're in the file, but maybe you want to see them now?”

Sherlock perked up a bit. “What kind of mark?”

“Here's Brian's,” she said. She shined a penlight behind his ear. Sherlock crouched. “I thought it was nothing at first, but then Moira, Stephen and James had it too.”

“Three inch-long diagonal lines. A symbol, but of what? For whom?” Sherlock stood for a moment before sweeping out of the morgue.

“Ah, thanks Molly. We'll let you know if we need anything else,” John said, and turned to follow Sherlock.

“Um, John, um, I...”

John turned back to her. He smiled and took her hand. “It's okay. Don't worry about it, Molly, I understand. I'm glad someone with some sense was able to help him.”

Molly beamed at him and looked as if a giant weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “Oh, thank you John, you have no idea how happy that makes me. I'll call you if I find anything!”

John met Sherlock outside, and wasn't at all surprised to see that Mycroft was already gone. 

“Said he had business to take care of. That suits me fine, I can only handle so much of his hovering,” Sherlock waved down a cab and sent it in the opposite direction of Baker Street.

“Uh, where are we going?”

“I have to make a small investment.” Sherlock-speak for bribing the homeless network. Once that was taken care of, they headed to Westminster to check out the crime scenes.

John asked the question that had been eating at him all morning. “Do you think Mycroft knows?”

“He knows something's different, but to him, me becoming romantically or sexually involved with anyone is so far outside the realm of possibility, he hasn't considered it. His first thought is going to be you having a new girlfriend, but he'll dismiss that when there's no evidence. He'll figure it out eventually. Does that bother you?”

John raised his hands. “No! Well, maybe a little, but only because it's Mycroft and I don't want him in our business any more than he already is.”

Sherlock snorted. 

They started at Parliament Square Garden, where Stephen McIlroy was found. Sherlock removed the crime scene photos.

“He had to have been killed somewhere else,” John said, looking around.

Sherlock smirked. “Good, but why?”

John swept an arm out. “This place is a tourist trap. No way someone didn't see a murder; there's thousands of people here.”

“Right, the body was left here for a reason. A warning. Something to do with that symbol presumably. Stephen's was on the bottom of his foot, which means the killer took the time to carve it then put his sock and shoe back on. He was strangled manually, meaning he's a strong man.”

“If the same man killed all four, how has he subdued them? There weren't any drugs in their systems and there weren't any other signs of intoxication.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock took off toward Westminster Station, causing John to break into a jog to keep up with him. Sherlock barreled through the crowds of commuters and hopped down onto the tracks, ignoring John's hissed warnings. “James was pushed onto the tracks and chased. He was knocked down again when a train came through, taking off his head.”

“Hold on, how do you figure that? Wouldn't someone have seen him get pushed? CCTV?”

Sherlock walked back a bit to the platform, where several people were giving them odd looks “Not if he was standing here. He was leaning against this wall, right under the camera. A bit of fiber is stuck in the panels; it matches his shirt.”

“Okay, so he was out of view of the cameras, surely someone would've seen him.”

Sherlock shuffled the autopsy notes. “Time of death was about 3am. Not too many people around then. His body was found fifty feet down the track meaning something or someone was preventing him from getting back onto the platform.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Indeed. His mark was on his chest, so the killer didn't have time after the train struck him to hide it like he did the other three. The train operator knew he hit something and called it in right away.” He hauled himself back onto the platform and helped John up before taking off.

John had to run again, catching up to Sherlock heading down to the pier.

“Can you stop that?” he panted, hands on knees. 

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow. “You were the one who proclaimed yourself fit for duty.”

“Are you serious? I am, but you could at least—you know what, never mind. This is where Brian was found, right?”

“With lungs full of the Thames. He was pulled out of the water by pier workers early Sunday morning. He was most likely killed elsewhere along the river and brought here, where he'd be quickly found.” Sherlock turned and looked up at Westminster Bridge. They were standing below the Boudicca statue and had a view of the entire north side of the bridge. Sherlock looked at the crime scene photos for Moira's death. “Come on, up here,” he said, and took off.

John kept up this time, and they came to a stop in the center of the bridge, facing south, under a set of street lights. Moira's body had been propped up here. 

“She probably looked like a drunk, taking a nap. Anyone who passed by paid no attention.” John looked around. “This is crazy. There are so many people, it's right on top of Parliament and the Met, and no one saw anything.”

“It was done in the early morning, with the fewest people. And at least two were killed elsewhere, and Moira here could be ignored as a drunk. Stephen was the only one that was high risk, which is why the killer hasn't struck again. These are messages, to Parliament. All were within view of Westminster Palace, and the places they were left had something to do with Westminster: the Pier, the Bridge, the Station, and the Gardens.”

“So he doesn't like Parliament; that was fairly obvious from the beginning. But why these four and what's the significance of the symbol?”

Sherlock waved down a cab and they got in. “We'll need to interview the Lords. Find out what their staffers were working on.”

John laughed. “Do you think Mycroft is going to let you anywhere near the House of Lords?”


	7. So Slowly Fading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize in advance for the small section of me attempting to write a street kid's accent. No apologies for the solo Sherlock, though. Chapter title from "Lament" off One by Tesseract

“Absolutely not. I had them questioned. The notes are in the file I gave you. You will not be interviewing anyone or setting foot in Westminster Palace,” Mycroft told Sherlock over the phone later that evening.

“I need to gather data, Mycroft. I can't do that if I can't interview witnesses.”

“They didn't see anything.”

“That's what they told you. If I’m able to interview them, I’ll be able to see body language, hear tone of voice, catch someone in a lie when they change their story.”

“No, Sherlock.”

“Fine,” he snarled and disconnected.

“We'll have to focus on that symbol, then, and whatever your homeless network turns up,” John said, stifling a yawn.

“You should go to bed. You're obviously exhausted. You'll be useless like this.”

“I'd be offended if I wasn't so tired. Sorry Sherlock, I guess I have to build up my stamina. I'm not used to chasing you all over London. It was good, though, being out there with you again.” John stood and stretched, then leaned down and kissed Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes slid closed as he arched into the kiss. Their tongues tangled together for a few moments before John pulled away. “I'll let you work. Before this goes too far.” He yawned again. “Or I fall asleep.” He disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom. Or was it their bedroom now? Sherlock shook his head and went to the bookshelf, picking out a few symbol dictionaries. He flipped between the books and the internet, finding a few things that were close, but no exact matches.

He let his head drop against the couch with a groan and tossed the latest book aside after a short investigation. What was wrong with him? Normally he'd be running himself into the ground, chasing leads, no matter how weak, all over the city. He wouldn't be contemplating going to bed in the middle of a case. He looked at the closed bedroom door. It was John's fault. No, that wasn't fair. His need to be with John was the problem. Sherlock frowned. Problem? John had been anything but a problem. In fact he had taken Sherlock's declaration of love last night with more grace than expected, and he'd not only accepted but reciprocated fellatio. He also accepted their new relationship with a surprising ease. Sherlock couldn't have asked for their evolution to have gone better. So what, then, was the problem? 

Sherlock wanted more. 

That wasn't normal for him. He'd orgasmed more in the last two days than he had in the past four years. It just wasn't something he typically felt the urge to do. Until now, with John. Fellatio and mutual masturbation were all well and good, but there was something else he was missing, wanting, that he wasn't sure John would be as accepting of. He'd never explored anal sex before, but as he told John, he was aware of the mechanics. Perhaps a trial run? An experiment? Not every man enjoyed it; he'd hate to get into it with John and discover he'd made a mistake.

He stood and went to his coat, digging into an inner pocket. He'd swiped the medical grade lubricant from Bart's this morning specifically for this purpose. Stripping off his shirt, trousers, and underwear, leaving a trail as he made his way back to the couch, he plopped down, legs spread. He ran a hand across his chest, tweaking both nipples as he went. Discovering how sensitive they were came as a bit of shock last night; he brought both hands up and rolled and pinched at them, biting his lip to stifle a loud moan.

He squeezed a generous amount of lubricant onto the fingers of his right hand and spread it around a bit. Planting his feet flat on the floor, he sank down off the couch so he ended up in a squat, knees spread widely. He transferred a bit of lubricant to his left hand and gave his cock a few quick jerks. Seeking the opening, he snaked his right hand between his legs. Gasping as his fingers made contact, he circled the entrance gently, not applying too much pressure yet. Sherlock continued slowly pulling at his cock. After several minutes, and a bit more lubrication, he pushed his middle finger against the tight ring, breaching himself. He had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. Panting heavily, he pushed the finger in further and began tugging his cock faster. He thrust his finger in and out a few times, trying different angles before finally hitting his prostate. He slammed his head back onto the couch, mouth open in a silent howl as his orgasm tore through him. His chest and belly were splattered with semen, and as he pulled his finger from his arse, his cock gave another weak pulse and dripped over his hand.

Sherlock dropped to the floor. “Fuck.” He hastily cleaned himself up and wiped haphazardly at the floor. Quickly throwing on pajamas, he joined John in bed, taking care not to jar him too much. He curled around John, drawing a contented sigh from the shorter man before he resumed snoring lightly. Obviously he hadn't heard Sherlock's extremely successful experiment. 

John was already awake and had breakfast waiting by the time Sherlock woke up. He wandered out to the living room to John sipping tea and reading Mycroft's Parliament murder files.

“Good morning. I tried to wake you up, but you were dead to the world. You must've worked pretty hard last night; did you find anything?”

Sherlock looked away. He certainly had worked hard last night. “No. None of the symbols matched.”

“Hmm, we'll have to wait to see what your homeless network turns up. I've been looking through Mycroft's interviews with the Lords whose staffers were killed.” He shook his head. “They're up to their eyeballs in just about everything. I don't know how they keep it all straight.”

“That's what the staff is for. Most of the work is done by the assistants.”

“Well that would explain why they were targeted and not the Lords themselves. I'm sure Mycroft would be lost without Anthea.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not as much as you'd think. He's surprisingly hands-on.” He motioned for John to join him on the couch and spread the interviews on the coffee table. “What do all four have in common?”

John started reading through their activities. “Parliamentary privilege committee, Human Rights Committee, oh here's a fun one 'Televising of the Proceedings of the House.' Do we really need a whole committee on that? No wonder we have 800 Lords.”

Sherlock chuckled, then suddenly snatched the paper John was reading out of his hands. “Joint Committee on National Security Strategy.”

John looked at the others. “That's it. Anyone involved in that committee--”

“There's ten Lords and twelve from the House of Commons.” He sent a text to Mycroft. “We know who he's after, we'll just need to know who's next.”

John was typing and clicking madly on his laptop. “Okay, the Security Committee includes the chairs of the Justice, Home Affairs, Foreign Affairs, and Defense Committees, which our victims all worked for.”

Sherlock scanned the list of additional committee chairs. “Intelligence and Security. I thought Mycroft was being hyperbolic when he said this was a matter of national security.”

John ran a hand down his face. “Christ.”

“This won't accomplish anything in the long run, you know that. There may be a few more corpses, but the work itself won't suffer. These people will be replaced, and the general public will carry on in ignorance.” Sherlock looked up at the silence from John, who was frowning at him unblinkingly. He sighed. “John...”

“No hold on. You think I'm upset about the assistants being so easily replaced. Well I am, but I know that's reality. I don't like it, but I know that's how it works.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. 

“I'm upset that you're assuming we’re going to let him kill anyone else.”

Sherlock nodded. “Let's head back to Westminster. The Network should have some news.”

They arrived near Westminster Station in the late afternoon, and met up with one of the Network, a shaggy blonde boy that couldn't have been older than seventeen

“Oi Sherl, good ta see ya cuttin' 'bout London again. Evie said tha' she talked ta Jamie and said ya aksed 'im ta find a picture, yeah? I seen tha' picture before, yeah? Ol' Tom, lived in Battersea. Taught me some stuff like. I kin jump on a movin' train wit'out losin' mah feet, yeah? 'E was a Yank, though. Dunno how 'e got 'ere, but 'e called 'imself a 'obo. Said they 'ad marks like, to let other 'obos know where was a good place ta stay like.”

“A hobo. Historically they were transient workers, moving from job to job, and not necessarily homeless. And this 'Tom' showed you this symbol?” Sherlock pressed.

“Yessir. Coupla otha' ones too, course, but I remember this one. 'E said it looked like a jail cell. Means 'bad place.' I look fer it now, 'fore I bed down. Reckon them 'obo marks prolly saved me some trouble yeah?”

Sherlock shoved a fifty pound note into the boy's pocket. “Make sure you share with Evie and Jamie.”

“Aw, sure will Sherl, swear on me mum.” He disappeared into the Station crowds.

As Sherlock concluded his business, John was searching “hobo symbols” on his phone, and sure enough, the three diagonal lines meant “dangerous place, stay away.”

They headed to a quieter area. “Now that I have the world's strangest search history, what do we do with that information? The killer seems to think Parliament is a treacherous place and thinks killing off members of the Security Committee is going to make it...safer? Better? Seems counter intuitive.”

Sherlock grinned and hummed in agreement. “He's a serial killer John, I'm not sure how much logic you want him to have. Though it may be a house cleaning of sorts. Getting rid of the rot to make room for the new.” 

A car suddenly pulled up near them. Mycroft rolled the window down. “Get in.”

Groaning over-dramatically, Sherlock climbed in and John followed. John was surprised to see Lestrade in the car as well. 

“Hey Greg. I thought there was 'minimal NSY presence?'”

“Yeah, apparently I'm it. I don't know why you think I can handle this alone, without my team,” he said, frowning at Mycroft.

“Sherlock and John are perfectly capable, Detective Inspector.”

“They ain't exactly officers!”

He was pointedly ignored. Lestrade shook his head. “Bloody bastard,” he muttered. John sympathized, having been on the receiving end of Mycroft's manipulations plenty.

They arrived at Mycroft's office, and John was surprised to see a young woman already waiting for them. 

“You must be Kelly Monroe, Lord Denton's chief of staff?” Mycroft quickly introduced Sherlock, John and Lestrade.

“Yes sir, Mr Holmes. Lord Denton told me to come right away, something to do with the disappearances?”

“Murders, actually.” Ms Monroe let out a startled “oh!” before Mycroft continued. “What can you tell us about your routine?”

“My routine, sir? I don't understand, I thought this had to do with our work.”

Sherlock sighed. “It does, but if you're the next target, the killer knows your movements. We need to know your routine, in detail, to prevent your murder.”

Ms Monroe had a hand over her mouth. “He's been watching me?”

“Most likely. Your routine, Ms Monroe,” Sherlock snapped.

“Right, okay. Um, I get off at Westminster Station around 7am, and walk to the Palace. I get buzzed in by security by 7:30. I don't leave the Palace until 5:30 or 6.”

“Long day. You don't leave for lunch or take any other breaks off the grounds?” Lestrade asked.

“No sir, we eat lunch here. Sometimes I take a lap of the interior if it's been an extra stressful day, but I stay inside. Too many distractions outside.”

“You're very dedicated,” Sherlock said with a bite of sarcasm.

Ms Monroe puffed herself up a bit. “I take pride in my work with Lord Denton and the Security Committee.”

“What do you do after work?” John asked.

“I head over to Caffe Nero for coffee and bite to eat.”

“In Westminster Station?” Sherlock prodded.

“No, on Marsham, across from the Home Office. It's a bit out of the way, but it's quieter than the one in the Station. Sometimes I hop on a bus if the weather isn't good, but usually I walk and cut through the gardens. I'll stay for an hour or so then catch a bus back to Westminster Station.”

“Near the Home Office would be a perfect place for him to leave one of his 'messages,'” Mycroft said. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

“In any of your travels, have you noticed anyone following you? Or someone that's always there? He might be out of place or he might be a worker, like a janitor in the Station or in the cafe,” Lestrade said.

“He'd be a younger man, late twenties or early thirties, and well built,” Sherlock added.

“No, no one like that. The only regular I know is Lew, one of the baristas at Nero. He tried to get my number once, but he's seventeen, so I turned him down. The men from the Station are all older, and I don't think I've seen the same one twice.”

Sherlock frowned and looked at his watch. “It's 5pm now. Lestrade, you and John head to Caffe Nero. John, go inside and wait. Lestrade, keep watch outside. I'll wait here with Ms Monroe and go with her to Nero. We'll walk.”

“I don't like splitting up,” John said.

“We need to know what we're getting into, so someone needs to be in the cafe. With Lestrade outside, he'll be able to call for backup if necessary. There's no need to worry.”

“I'm not worried about me you mook.”

“Ah. I'll be fine.” Sherlock stopped himself from reaching for John. 

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Shall we go then, John?” He nodded grudgingly and the two left. Ms Monroe also excused herself to the loo and to gather up some of her things, leaving Mycroft and Sherlock alone.

Mycroft opened his mouth. Sherlock held up a hand. “Don't.”

“Just making sure you know what you're doing, little brother.”

Sherlock glared.

“I'll take that as a 'no.' Do be careful. Feelings can be so fickle and fragile.”

“Shut up Mycroft.”

Ms Monroe returned and stood nervously in the doorway. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all. I want to assure you, Ms Monroe, that we won't let any harm come to you. Once I've spotted our murderer, he will be subdued. You won't be in any danger,” Sherlock said.

“Thank you Mr Holmes. I know I'm 'bait' but if it helps you catch this man, I'll do what I can.” She stood up straighter. “I'm ready when you are.”

“Very good Ms Monroe. I'll be here, obviously, to make sure this doesn't go completely pear-shaped, and to clean up any messes that might occur.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you Mycroft. Come along, Ms Monroe. Let's flush out our murderer.”

Sherlock let Ms Monroe leave a few minutes ahead of him and followed her at a safe distance: close enough to be available if necessary, but far enough away not to be obvious. He texted John and Lestrade, letting them both know they were on their way and should arrive in about ten minutes. Both replied that they hadn't seen anything unusual yet. Ms Monroe was to follow her usual routine of ordering coffee and food, and sit in her usual spot, making it look like she was there alone. Sherlock would join John while Lestrade kept watch outside.

They arrived at the cafe without incident and without Sherlock seeing anyone suspicious. He sat down at John's table while Ms Monroe ordered.

“Anything?” Sherlock asked.

“Nope.”

Ms Monroe sat down at a table and opened her bag. She retrieved a book and began to read.

“This might end up being very boring,” Sherlock said, scanning the cafe.

“Hmmm,” John replied as he sipped his drink.

Suddenly their phones buzzed with a text from Lestrade: “Incoming” 

Both men were instantly on alert as a large man entered. He was easily taller than Sherlock and sturdily built. He wore a baseball cap low over his eyes, which hid most of his face. He sat down at a corner table without ordering anything.

Ms Monroe had noticed the man as well, but kept her cool and didn't give them away. She got up to throw away her cup, passing by Sherlock and John in the process. “Leave,” Sherlock muttered quietly to her. Ms Monroe gave an almost imperceptible nod and went back to her table to pack up her bag. John texted Lestrade to let him know that she was coming out. She walked out, then quickly darted across the street where Lestrade was waiting. He lead her into the Home Office, whose security had been made aware of the “operation” most likely by Mycroft. To give her time to get away, John dropped his drink in front of the door, blocking it as he cleaned it up, causing the large man to curse at him and shove him aside, pushing his way out the door. Sherlock followed and as the murderer looked around for his target, quipped, “Lose something?”

The murderer froze for a second before taking off, Sherlock hot on his heels and John behind him. He was surprisingly quick and agile for a big man, and it was all they could do to keep him in their sights. They chased him through St John's Garden where he turned back toward the cafe. Lestrade chose that moment to catch up to them, and managed to cut the murderer off, forcing him behind Home Office, allowing Sherlock and John to close in. 

They were in an alley and the whole area had been surrounded by police and security. 

He turned and faced John and Sherlock, brandishing a large knife.

“I'm really tired of knives,” John panted.

“Agreed. Put it down! You're trapped! You have nowhere left to run, so give up quietly!”

“No one else has to get hurt!”

“Fuck you! You ruined everything! This was the start of something big! Bigger than you or me! The world was going to change!”

“From killing a couple of Parliamentary staff members? Are you an idiot? What was that going to do, other than create some job openings?”

“Sherlock...” John admonished. “Listen, there's no reason--”

He never finished; suddenly the man charged with a primal scream. John was on Sherlock's right, and he had the wind briefly knocked out of him as Sherlock shoved him into a wall. He heard a pained gasp from Sherlock as both he and the murderer went down in a tangle. John recovered himself and hauled the larger man off Sherlock with an arm around his neck and spun him around before landing a right hook in the big man's solar plexus, doubling him over. John took advantage of the face that was now at a perfect height to drive a knee into, sending him sprawling to the ground, unconscious. The knife clattered away. 

“John.”

John whirled to Sherlock, who was sitting against the wall. “Sherlock, Jesus, are you—oh God,” he said as he registered the dark blood on Sherlock's shirt. He knelt and put pressure on the wound, causing Sherlock to grunt.

Lestrade arrived and took in the scene, quickly calling for an ambulance. A few officers from the NSY had also arrived and dragged the still unconscious murderer away. Lestrade commandeered a shock blanket from one of the officers and passed it to John, who wrapped it around Sherlock.

“I'm not in shock,” he protested, and tried to pull it off before being overcome with wracking coughs. Blood trickled from his mouth.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, stop moving. Please. Just...focus on breathing,” John pleaded, taking his hands away for a quick look at the injury, a deep stab wound between the fourth and fifth ribs on the right side. It most likely punctured the lung causing it and the chest cavity to fill with blood. 

Sherlock's breath came in strange gurgles and he cleared his throat wetly, only to spit out a mouthful of blood. John wiped Sherlock's hair from his sweaty forehead and laid a palm on his cheek. “Hey. You can't do this. Sherlock Holmes, you can't leave me again.”

Sherlock covered John's hand. “I don't intend to.” He gagged and spat another mouthful of blood as the ambulance finally pulled in. Sherlock wiped his mouth on the blanket, grabbed John's face, and kissed him.


	8. Love is not a Dangerous Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So ends part one, and the boys take us out with a bang. Chapter title from "Mirror Image" off Sonder by Tesseract

Lestrade found John in the waiting room, impatiently pacing while Sherlock was still in surgery. He handed the other man a cup of coffee.

“Ta.”

They were silent for a few moments. “Dimmock owes me 100 quid. Anderson too.”

John stopped pacing and looked at Lestrade. “What?”

“You and Sherlock. Donovan and I bet Dimmock and Anderson £100 that you two would end up together.”

John winced. “Greg...”

He held up his hands, “Oi, I don't care, mate, that's your business, but I am glad that someone was able to prove that Sherlock has a heart.” He grasped John's right shoulder. “I gotta go take care of our murderer. Keep me posted though, yeah?”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks Greg. For everything.” John settled in to wait again. 

It was nearing midnight when Sherlock finally came out of surgery. He had several chest tubes inserted to treat both the hemo- and pneumothorax on his right side. He should be able to go home in a few days, but would definitely have to take it easy to allow himself to heal. Sherlock was heavily sedated, so John pulled a chair up next to the left side of the bed and pillowed his head in his arms, one hand holding Sherlock's. He fell asleep.

He wasn't sure what woke him, possibly the waterfall of drool rolling off his arm. Or Mycroft looming like a specter in the corner. John jerked upright in the chair. “Jesus, Mycroft.”

“Good morning, Dr Watson.”

John narrowed his eyes. Mycroft hadn't used his title since they first met and it was way too early to try and puzzle out his reasons. He rubbed his face. 

“Let's go for a walk, Dr Watson. You can grab some coffee.”

Coffee did sound good, but...he glanced at Sherlock.

“He'll sleep for a little while yet.”

They ended up at a table in the courtyard of the hospital with coffees and pastries. John waited for the hammer to fall.

“I'll be blunt, Dr Watson. Do you love my brother?”

There it was. He met Mycroft's piercing stare. “Yes.”

Mycroft was silent for a few moments before nodding. “Good.” He took a bite of his pastry.

“Is that it? You came down here to pull the 'threatening older brother' schtick and that's all you got?” John said, voice raised.

“Do calm down, John. For one thing, I don't threaten. For another, you know as well as I do that if this doesn't work, it will destroy you. Both of you.”

John let his head drop into his hands. “God help me, you're right.”

“Hmm, I usually am. I want it to work, John. Now, why don't you go home, shower, change and bring a change of clothes for Sherlock. I'll wait here with him.”

Though he was loathe to leave, he definitely needed to clean up after yesterday. John took him up on his offer and Mycroft headed back to Sherlock's room, finding his younger brother awake. “How are you feeling, brother dear?”

“Like I've been stabbed. When are they taking these out?” Sherlock asked, motioning to the chest tubes.

“Probably early tomorrow. You'll be able to go home some time after that, once they make sure you're healing properly.”

“I have a live in doctor, he can make sure I'm healing properly. Speaking of which, what did you do with John?”

“I sent him home to shower and change. He spent all night here with you.”

“Of course he did.” Sherlock tried to cross his arms over his chest but was hampered by the tubes. He settled for scowling.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“No, shut up Mycroft. What John and I feel for each other is none of your business, and I won't have you putting strange ideas in his head and trying to convince him, like you did me, that those feelings are dangerous. He's taught me the opposite. You can stay the hell away from us if you're going to be an arse.”

“Are you quite finished?” Sherlock glared. “I have no intention of...discouraging...you. In fact, you have my...blessing.” Mycroft was one of the few people that could shock Sherlock into silence. “Now, rest well so you can return home to your Doctor, dear brother.”

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

Sherlock was released the next morning, with strict instructions to take it easy for the next few days at least, and to return to hospital if he felt any shortness of breath or pain in his chest. The stab wound itself wasn't large and only needed a few stitches to close. He spent most of the first day in bed and finally joined John in the living room just before dinner.

John was sitting on the couch sideways watching telly when Sherlock came in, knocked his legs off, and gently lowered himself onto the couch. He rested his head on John's lap. John's look of irritation at being man-handled out of his comfortable position turned to one of fondness. He began petting Sherlock's hair. 

“Lestrade knows.”

Sherlock hummed and looked up at John. “I should hope so; he saw me kiss you. Does that bother you?”

“No, I—we don't have anything to hide. Apparently they were taking bets. We made him £100.”

Sherlock scoffed then winced. “Who bet against us?”

“Anderson and Dimmock.”

“Good, at least that troglodyte Anderson doesn't get to benefit.”

“I believe that's an insult to troglodytes.”

Sherlock bit back another scoff. “Mycroft knows too.”

John's expression darkened a bit and his hand stopped moving in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock moved to sit up, but John put his other hand on his shoulder, holding him down. “It's nothing. At first I thought he was threatening me, y'know, the whole 'break his heart and I'll break your neck' thing that older brothers do, but I think he was making sure I was serious. And to wish us luck.”

“Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a normal brother.”

“But then you'd be bored.”

“Never. I have you.” He reached up and brought John's head down with a hand on the back of his neck. It was an awkward position, especially for John, so the kiss didn't last long. John was smiling like an idiot through it and when he pulled away the expression was still there. Sherlock grinned back, and relaxed into John's lap.

Sherlock fell into a doze, and was awakened by a “Woohoo!” followed closely by an “Oh!” from an embarrassed Mrs Hudson. John was asleep above him, his hand still tangled in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock looked over, watching Mrs Hudson drop off a plate of...something.

“I just thought I'd bring you a little something to hold you over for the next day or two,” she whispered. She was clearly fighting an excited outburst at finding “her boys” together. “I'll go. Let me know if you need anything, dearie.” She clapped her hands together in front of her chest and trotted away, humming a bright tune.

Sherlock slept a lot the next two days while his body healed. John tended to him like a nanny, bringing him breakfast in bed, though he drew the line at dinner. He made Sherlock get up and move around on occasion, and they took several walks around the neighborhood to rebuild Sherlock's strength and make sure he wasn't having any trouble breathing. John tried to keep him busy with cases he could work from home, but he was getting antsy and wanted to go out again. He'd only been under house arrest for three days, but he was at his limit. Sherlock needed another case, but there was no way John was going to allow that so soon. Perhaps something else.

Sherlock woke up before John on the fifth day of his captivity, took a very thorough shower, and climbed back into bed with John. He lay there for awhile, trying not to wake John, but it was becoming increasingly difficult not to touch. John was on his right side, back to Sherlock, so he started with small quick kisses on the back of his neck and shoulders and snaking one hand around to run it up and down John's chest and stomach. 

“Hmm, Sh'lock,” John slurred sleepily. He came fully awake as Sherlock's hand slid into his pants. “Sherlock!” he arched against the hand. 

“John, we haven't done anything in a week. I need—want to touch you. I feel...like I've neglected you.”

John rolled over so he was facing Sherlock. “Neglected? No, Sherlock, you were injured. And don't think you have to shower me with affection 24/7.” He took a slow breath. “I love you for who you are. If you don't want to go around holding hands, or snogging in public, or climbing onto my lap at a crime scene, that's fine. That's not like either of us. I'm not going to complain about hand-holding or kissing if that's what you want, but you don't have to. What we have here, in this flat, is more than enough.”

Sherlock blinked several times at John before pushing him onto his back and straddling his stomach. He leaned over, planting his elbows on either side of John's head, and kissed him roughly, bringing their mouths together in a clash of tongues, lips and teeth. Sherlock pulled back with a gasp and swollen lips. “I love you, John Watson.”

John kissed him, gently this time. 

“John, can we...” he trailed off, frowning as John continued leaving kisses down his jaw. “I'd like to try—oh God!” he exclaimed as John hit the sensitive spot on his throat. Sherlock pushed him back and John raised an eyebrow. “John, I want you inside me.” 

The other eyebrow joined the first and they climbed toward his hairline. “Sherlock. Are you sure? You just came out of hospital. I don't know if we have...” John was pink all over.

“I stole some lubricant from Bart's. We shouldn't need condoms. I know we're both clean; you're a doctor, you get tested regularly, and I was tested just before returning to London. I want this. I want you.”

John scrubbed at his face. “All right. How…?”

“I've read that the best position to start would be with me on my hands and knees.” Sherlock said, because of course he’d done his research. He stood and stripped, pulled John off the bed and prompted him to do the same. Sherlock retrieved the lubricant while John locked the bedroom door, drawing a puzzled look from the other man.

“We don't need Mrs Hudson, or, God forbid, Mycroft, interrupting.”

Sherlock crawled back on the bed. “Never say his name in here again.”

“Done.” John knelt behind Sherlock, placed a tentative hand on the small of his back and said “Tell me if you're uncomfortable or in pain. If you need to stop, we will.” He inched forward until he was flush against Sherlock's arse, running his hands down Sherlock's chest and belly, taking care to avoid the healing incisions and stab wound. John focused for a few moments on rolling Sherlock's sensitive nipples while nuzzling his neck. He slid his hands down to the taller man's erection while kissing his way down his back. 

John straightened and grabbed the lubricant, pouring a liberal amount on his fingers. “Ready?” he asked, sounding more confident than he felt, and at Sherlock's nod, spread his arse, exposing the tight furl. Knowing in theory what needed to happen if not in practice, he circled it with his fingers, wrenching a loud groan from Sherlock. John pushed his index finger in to the second knuckle and slowly twisted his wrist. Sherlock gasped and tensed a bit. “Sorry, too fast? Try to relax. I'll slow down.”

“No, it's fine, it's just...a lot.”

For someone with minimal sexual experience, John figured this might be a bit overwhelming. He noticed that Sherlock hadn't touched himself, but he was still hard. John took that as a good sign. “Ready for another?” Sherlock only nodded again, and John pressed his middle finger in. 

Three things happened at once: Sherlock roared into a pillow, the channel around John's fingers began clamping around them, and Sherlock came without being touched, spraying the length of the bed beneath him.

“Holy shit,” John murmured, and started to withdraw his fingers.

“No!” Sherlock ordered and pushed back. He still had an erection. 

“Jesus. Okay, okay. One more.” He added more lubricant and scissored the two already inserted fingers a bit before sliding his ring finger in. Sherlock moaned and pushed against him again. He found, and avoided as best he could, Sherlock's over-sensitive prostate. John spread all three fingers slightly, trying to gauge how much he should stretch Sherlock. He began steadily pumping them in and out. Sherlock dropped to his elbows, changing the angle and pulling another moan from his throat.

“John, John, John, stop!” John jerked his fingers out, thinking he had hurt Sherlock, causing the other man to squawk in discomfort at the sudden withdrawal. Sherlock flopped over onto his back, not noticing or caring that he was laying in the come from his previous orgasm. “I think I was going to come again,” he gasped. His cock was purple and throbbing against his belly. “Please John.” He raised his knees and grasped the back of his thighs, spreading himself as wide as possible. 

John took a deep breath, used more lubricant on his cock, and pushed against Sherlock's entrance. The head popped in with a grunt from Sherlock and all the control John could muster. He slowly continued to push into Sherlock, who was panting. Suddenly Sherlock ground himself the rest of the way onto John's cock, causing him to nearly fall on top of Sherlock. 

Sherlock's heels pressed into John's lower back. “Fuck me, John.”

John's eyes widened. His hips started moving almost of their own accord. He grabbed Sherlock's knees for leverage as he rocked into him.

A steady stream of “ohs” were escaping Sherlock, occasionally interspersed with John's name. It came to a stop all at once and Sherlock grabbed John's hands, silent and wide-eyed, as he came again. The ripples of Sherlock's orgasm against John's cock almost caused him to lose control and he stopped moving. 

_Sherlock was still hard._

“John, if you don't start moving again, I am going to kill you.”

Not needing to be told twice, John pistoned his hips faster, chasing his own orgasm. He leaned down, captured Sherlock's mouth, and began tugging at his cock. Sherlock threw his head back and John kissed down his neck, licking and sucking at the tender spots. 

“John...”

“Hold on Sherlock, I'm almost there. Just a little bit...”

“John!”

John slammed home once more, coming inside as Sherlock's third orgasm was dragged from him. It was relatively weak compared to the previous two and flowed around John's hand.

Now John did fall partially on top of Sherlock, face down and one arm thrown across his chest, still aware enough to avoid landing on his right side. John's softening cock slowly slid out of Sherlock and the taller man let his legs drop. Both were panting heavily.

“I'm tryin' to think of somethin' appropriate to say for that and I've got nothin',” John mumbled into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

“Fucking incredible.”

“That'll work,” John said with a laugh.

They both lay there for a few moments before Sherlock started to writhe a bit against the bed. John's head popped up. “Shit. We'll have to strip the sheets. Can you get up?”

“No.”

“Sherlock, the bed's full of...semen. Get up for a minute so I can get rid of the sheets. I'll get a flannel to wash up with too, since I don't think either of us are going to remain conscious long enough for a shower.”

Sherlock grumbled and rolled out of bed. He leaned against his desk as John pulled the soiled sheets off the bed. He put his pants back on and went to the bathroom, returning with a warm wet flannel to find Sherlock with a peculiar expression on his face, a combination of disgust and curiosity.

“It's...leaking,” he said with a deep frown.

John wondered if they should have spoken about this particular “mechanic” of gay sex. “Ah, yeah. What goes in has to come out. In general.” Trying to ignore how red he could feel himself getting, he wiped down Sherlock's back, chest and groin as well as his own. “Do you want me to…?”

“No, thank you.” He snatched the flannel from John and disappeared into the bathroom. It gave John just enough time to throw another set of sheets on the bed as Sherlock came back relatively quickly.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Yes, thank you John. Can we go to sleep now?”

/*/*/*/*/*/*

The first thing Sherlock became aware of was heat. He was lying on his left side and John was curled up around him. “Spooning” he believed it was called. Though they had both put pants on, neither bothered with shirts, so John's chest was sticking to his back. And his breath was hot on the back of his neck. And his fringe was ticklish. And his arm was heavy across his hips. Now that he was aware of all these things, Sherlock couldn't get comfortable enough to go back to sleep. It had to be late morning or early afternoon at this point, so his body might be telling him to get up.

“I can hear you thinking,” John murmured. He shifted onto his back and Sherlock followed, the position much cooler and more comfortable.

“Not possible. What was I thinking about, then?”

John still had his eyes closed. “You were hot and uncomfortable and wanted me to move my arm.”

“Hmph.”

John smirked, eyes still closed. He seemed to drift off again, so Sherlock hesitated before speaking again.

“John, you don't...regret--”

John didn't let him finish the question. His eyes snapped open and he fixed Sherlock with a glare. “Absolutely not. Although I'm a bit jealous at your complete lack of refractory period. And are you aware how dirty your mouth can get?”

Sherlock had the grace to blush. 

“Oh, don't, hearing those words come out of that mouth in your voice is...well.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Hearing me say 'fuck' turns you on?”

“You asking me to fuck you? Yeah, a little bit.” Now John was blushing. 

“Hmm.” Sherlock filed that away in the Mind Palace for future reference.

“Just to get all the uncomfortable conversation out of the way, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I should have asked or warned you before I...came...inside. I wasn't thinking.” John's face was on fire.

Sherlock looked at him as if John had just proposed a threesome with Mycroft. “When I said I wanted you inside me, I meant all of you. The aftermath was a bit strange, but on the whole it was a positive experience. One I hope we can repeat.”

“Leave it to you to make it sound so clinical. But yes, I would like to have sex with you again.”


	9. Terror In Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a flashback, and John helps him get over it. Title from "Hexes" off Polaris by Tesseract

“You blokes decent?” Lestrade called as he let himself in.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It's just me here, Lestrade. John's back to doing locum work a few days a week.”

Lestrade met Sherlock in the living room, where the detective was doing...absolutely nothing. “Well at least one of you is making an honest living.” He shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. “Ah, bugger, I probably shouldn't tell you this, given how you reacted last time, but we might need your help.”

Lestrade had Sherlock's undivided attention. Sherlock had been without a solid case for nearly three weeks and he was ready to take whatever the DI had. “I assume you shouldn't tell me anything about your cases, but you do anyway because you always need my help, and my reactions have nothing to do with my ability to solve a case.”

Lestrade still hesitated.

Sherlock sighed loudly. “What is it?” he snapped.

“All right, all right. You remember the case before the whole Parliament killer? Jason Reynolds, overdosed and posed after the fact?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He remembered, obviously, and that also explained why Lestrade mentioned his reaction. “Yes, go on.”

“We had him autopsied, of course, to find out what kind of drugs he'd taken. Turns out Molly had seen that particular cocktail before, in seven other overdose deaths over the past few months. It's also shown up a few times at various A&Es around the city. Which means--”

“You have a new drug in the area or someone is killing people using the drugs.”

“Right. I thought, maybe, you'd want to take a look, see if it's worth the great Consulting Detective's time. If it's just a nasty drug epidemic, I can turn it over to someone else. Not our division. If it's murder, though...”

Sherlock tapped his finger under his nose. John was due home within the next two hours; if Sherlock got held up at Bart's researching, he could always text and have John meet him there. They could grab dinner on the way home.

“Okay. Let's go. I'll talk with Molly and see what the autopsies uncovered.”

/**///*/*/*/

“Oh Sherlock, Greg wasn't sure if you were coming. I have Jason Reynolds' toxicology report here as well as the others that I've come across. I noticed the pattern after the third one, but figured it was a new drug on the streets. Then Greg told me that Reynolds had been moved after he died. I'm not sure what that means, though.”

Sherlock essentially ignored Molly and read through the report, freezing as he got to the type of drugs found in Reynolds' system. He set the report down after a moment and sent two texts, first to John and then to Mycroft.

“Sherlock? You all right mate? You just went white as a sheet.”

“I—yes, fine.” Turning to Molly, he said, “Lestrade said there have been others?” Sherlock placed one hand nonchalantly on the counter, bracing himself as his knees suddenly threatened to buckle. 

“Yeah, a total of eight deaths and when I checked at the other hospitals to see if there had been any non-fatal overdoses with the same cocktail, there were seven more.” Molly frowned at him and moved closer. “Are you sure you're all right? You look awfully peaky. Do you want to sit down?”

Lestrade shoved a stool behind him and pushed on his shoulders. Sherlock dropped onto the seat without protest. Molly met Lestrade's eyes over Sherlock's head. Lestrade frowned.

“All of them? This same combination? Heroin, fentanyl, and 25I?” Sherlock's voice shook slightly.

Molly nodded. “Sherlock, what's going on? You're not okay. Should we call John?”

“Already did. Texted him.” He knew what this was now, he'd seen John have them often enough. His heart was racing and he was having trouble controlling his breathing. God, is this what John went through every time? His throat felt like it was closing and he tried to clear it. Something was very wrong. He was at Bart's, or he had been, and then it turned very cold, colder than the morgue should have been. Morgue? Right, he was at the morgue with...Molly? And Lestrade? No, no, they shouldn't be here. He was alone. Outside, where there was a lot of snow, that's why it was so cold. He had to contact Mycroft. Mycroft would get him...get him what? His back hurt, but he couldn't remember why. He tried to clear his throat again.

“Molly, run and grab some water, yeah?” She took off for the closest water cooler. Lestrade moved in front of Sherlock. “Hey, I don't know what exactly set this off, but you'll be all right. You're safe here.” Lestrade winced, that sounded trite even to him. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. He reached out and grabbed his forearm in a bruising grip. “Just, shit, focus on me. Your favorite DI. You're at Bart's, in London.” Molly returned with water. “Sherlock, can you try to drink? You're breathing really fast, drinking might help slow it down a bit.”

“Sherlock,” Molly tried. “Can you take a drink? I'll help if-if you can't hold it.”

They were trying to get him to drink something. He didn't want it. He clamped down tighter on the arm he was holding; he'd break it if they tried to inject him again. 

“Jesus he's got an iron grip. Sherlock, mate, listen. You're safe. It's just me and Molly. We're not going to hurt you.”

“Please Sherlock,” Molly was near tears.

Sherlock's phone buzzed on the counter and all three of them jumped. “I don't think he's going to let me go; you wanna see who that is?”

Molly sniffled and picked up the phone. “Oh thank God. John says he's here and on his way down. I'll go meet him. You'll be okay?”

“Go ahead. Hurry back.” She darted away. “You hear that, Sherlock, John's on his way. He'll get you sorted.”

“John?”

“'S right mate.” Lestrade was glad Sherlock was aware enough to register John's name, but his eyes were still not focusing on his surroundings.

“They'll hurt him.”

“They'll do no such thing. I won't let them. Whoever 'they' are.”

“Like they hurt me. I'll kill them if they do that to him.”

“I know you would Sherlock. But he's safe, he's coming to rescue you.” By this point, Lestrade figured that Sherlock was in the midst of a flashback of some sort, probably of something that happened during his period away.

Molly finally returned with John, who immediately went to Sherlock. Lestrade tried to back away, but Sherlock still had his arm in a death grip.

“John?”

“Yeah, Sherlock, I'm here, safe, in London. So are you. Molly and Lestrade are here. We're in St Bart's, you know I don't like Bart's Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked several times and frowned deeply, trying to focus on John.

“Just listen to my voice, Sherlock, and look around. You're safe. I'm safe. No one here is going to hurt you. Or me. This is St Bart's hospital in London. Why don't you let go of Greg's arm? He's our friend, he's not going to hurt you. We're safe.” He reached out slowly to run his fingers through the hair at the back of Sherlock's neck. “Easy, easy.”

Sherlock uncurled his fingers from Lestrade's arm. As much as he wanted to, Lestrade resisted the urge to shake it out. Sherlock's eyes widened and he broke out in a cold sweat. Having picked up enough drunks in his time to know what was coming, Lestrade quickly shoved a wastebasket under Sherlock just as he began to heave. John rubbed comforting circles into his back until it stopped. 

Molly handed Sherlock the previously forgotten water, which he sipped gingerly. 

“Sherlock?”

“I'm here.”

John breathed a sigh of relief. “Let's go home.”

“I'll take you,” Lestrade offered, feeling a little guilty. After all, he was the one that put Sherlock in this position and based on the look he was being given, John knew it. 

Lestrade drove them home in silence. Sherlock leaned heavily on John and John kept one hand on his thigh. They reached Baker Street and all three trekked up the stairs to 221B, keeping Sherlock between them. If Sherlock noticed the protective gesture, he didn't comment.

Sherlock stopped to brush his teeth while John started the kettle. Finished, Sherlock sank wearily onto the couch and glanced around the flat. “I'm surprised Mycroft's not here.”

“I'm sure he'll show up. Listen, I'm sorry, I didn't--”

Sherlock cut Lestrade off with tired wave of his hand. “You couldn't have known.”

“Maybe not, but I knew how you were after seeing the Reynolds scene. I could've waited.”

The kettle boiled and John gave both Lestrade and Sherlock a cup before settling next to Sherlock on the couch with his own. “You could've,” he said. “We both know he wouldn't have let you.”

Lestrade sat in the armchair. “Still, I _am_ sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Did you bring Reynolds' toxicology report with you?”

John looked at him in astonishment. “You can't be serious. That drove you to a massive panic attack and dissociative episode. You don't need--”

“He was drugged with the same cocktail I was in Volgograd.”

John's mouth snapped shut. Sherlock tossed him his phone. Mycroft had sent a file at some point during the excitement that appeared to show the results of a blood test. “Lestrade?”

He did have the report, having grabbed it on the way out. He set it on the coffee table next to where John laid Sherlock's phone. While the amounts were different, the chemical signature was the same. Lestrade ran a hand from his mouth to his chin. “Jesus Christ. Volgograd, Russia? When was this Sherlock?”

“About two months before I came back. Nothing to do with Moriarty or Moran. Mycroft looked for the dealer and the kidnappers, but never found any trace, though he was focusing more on Moran.” Sherlock was trembling faintly, still not completely recovered from the episode at the morgue.

Lestrade stood. “All right. I'm gonna do a little digging. I'll let you know if I find anything. Take it easy in the meantime and take care of yourself, Sherlock.” With a nod to both of them, he left.

As soon as Lestrade was gone, Sherlock collapsed against John, throwing a hand up to his forehead. He blew out a shaky breath. “I don't like those.”

John wrapped an arm around him. “Welcome to the PTSD club, mate,” he said sadly. “I know it's early, but I'm always exhausted after an episode. We can go to bed if you like. Or are you hungry at all? Do you want to talk?”

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair and wrinkled his nose. “Shower, I think. Then bed.” He twisted to look at John. “I don't want to talk about it. Not now. I want to try to forget.”

John frowned. “You know that's not healthy.”

Sherlock stood, grabbing John's hands and pulling him to his feet. “Just for now. We'll talk tomorrow. Right now, I want to take a shower. With you.” He moved into John's space and whispered, “I want to suck you off and then I want you to fuck me,” he ended the whisper with a kiss that turned into a lick under John's ear. He reached down and palmed John through his jeans, drawing a moan from the shorter man. “Make me forget for tonight, John.”

John pulled away from Sherlock with a gasp. “You are a bad man, Sherlock Holmes.”

They weren't teenagers; they could restrain themselves for the thirty seconds it took to make it to the bathroom, but it was a near thing as they stripped as they went. John barely got the shower turned on before Sherlock was on him, kissing him passionately and sucking his tongue into his mouth. They ran their hands down each others' bodies, Sherlock focusing on John's chest and stomach and John wrapping his arms around Sherlock caressing the smooth planes of his back before dipping lower and kneading his arse. Sherlock groaned into John's mouth and kissed down his jaw, finding the new sensation of early evening stubble quite interesting. He wondered what that would feel like between his legs. John had his head thrown back so Sherlock kissed down his neck, licking at the hollow of his throat. After their first time, they’d been limited in their exploits due to John picking up locum work again, so Sherlock intended to take his time. 

John's hands were still on his arse, and Sherlock tried the same, massaging and kneading and spreading while he kissed and nipped and licked down John's chest. His tongue flicked at a nipple, which pulled a breathy “fuck” from John and brought one of his hands to his straining erection, giving it a few quick jerks before reaching for Sherlock's cock. Sherlock slid to his knees before John could wrap his fingers around it. He pulled at it himself instead, trying to relieve some of the pressure but only ended up making it worse. He took his hands away and looked up at John as he lapped at the head of his cock before taking it fully into his mouth. John collapsed against the cool tile of the shower as Sherlock's hot mouth enveloped his cock. While he was down here, Sherlock tilted his lower body toward the shower spray and spread himself. If they were going to have sex, he wanted to be as clean as possible. This wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. 

“Oooh God, Sherlock, that position is criminal.”

He chuckled around John's cock, causing it to twitch in his mouth. Concentrating, he stretched his jaw as wide as he could and swallowed, managing to take John completely down his throat.

“Oh! Sherlock! Ah shitshitshit!” John tensed up as his climax approached and Sherlock took a chance, spreading John's arse and placing two fingers near the entrance, rubbing gently. 

John bit his lip to keep from shouting; a growl was trapped in his chest instead, and came down Sherlock's throat for several seconds before the other man needed to breathe and pulled off John's still-leaking member. John didn't say anything, only hauled him to his feet, kissed him roughly, and spun him around so his back was against the tile. He dropped quickly to his knees and damn near inhaled Sherlock's cock as deep as he could, using one hand for what his mouth couldn't reach. The other rolled Sherlock's balls and occasionally went further back to stroke his cleft.

Sherlock rested his hands on John's head, gripping his hair lightly. That wrenched a moan from John and he bobbed his head faster, going deeper each time, but still not able to get it all in. He inserted a finger into Sherlock.

“John!” Sherlock warned, and tugged at his hair, but John stayed where he was, swallowing Sherlock's orgasm.

Or most of it until the water turned to ice on his back and he yelped, standing quickly out of the freezing spray.

John and Sherlock stood next to each other, panting, with John beginning to giggle. “That distracted me from the taste, but now I'm freezing.”

Sherlock kissed him. “Well, there’s always bed.”

John spread a few towels on the bed before Sherlock laid down. He covered Sherlock's body with his own, kissing down his jaw to his nipples and taking one into his mouth and sucking.

Sherlock moaned deep. “Wait, John, can you...”

John released the nub and looked up at Sherlock, lifting his head away from the other man’s chest. Sherlock shoved his head back down so his prickly face rubbed against the sensitive nipple. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he writhed against the roughness of John's stubble. “Yeeesssss.” he hissed.

John looked a bit devious, grabbing Sherlock's hands and pinning them against his body as he rubbed his chin and cheeks across both nipples. “Oh, that's interesting,” John said, switching between licking and rubbing. Sherlock's nipples were red and raised and John could feel Sherlock's erection coming back to life between their bodies. John wasn't quite there himself, but he had an idea. Abandoning his nipples, John dragged his face down Sherlock's abdomen, kissing and nipping here and there as he went lower. He avoided the hardening cock completely. “Sherlock, put a pillow under your hips.” Sherlock did as he was asked, albeit with a slightly suspicious expression. With Sherlock's pelvis tilted toward him, John lowered his mouth to Sherlock's inner thighs. He'd done this before, but this time made sure to scrape his cheeks against the sensitive skin. Sherlock keened and his cock twitched. John moved his mouth to Sherlock's balls, licking lightly. He hesitated only a moment before dipping his tongue to Sherlock's entrance and circling it. 

Sherlock whined. “Oh God, John.” He grabbed his thighs and pulled them apart, hoping to give John better access.

John placed his thumbs on either side, stretching the hole slightly while his tongue probed deeper. He spent some time tonguing Sherlock's arse, occasionally canting his stubble-roughened face against Sherlock's thighs. 

John found himself rocking slightly against the bed, his cock finally hard again. He pulled away and knelt between Sherlock's legs.

“John, if you don't fuck me right now, they will never find your body.” Sherlock hissed and threw the lubricant at him.

John caught it and said, “I don't know if you're rea—wah!”

Sherlock flipped John onto his back, straddled him, lubed up his cock, and lowered himself onto it. Of course John was right and he wasn't stretched quite enough, but he didn't care. He barely let himself get acclimated before he began to rock, wincing slightly.

“Sherlock...”

Sherlock took John's hands and placed them on his hips. He was on his knees and slowly lifting himself and letting himself fall, grunting as he did so.

“Sherlock!”

“John, don't think, just move.” He leaned down and kissed him, massaging his hands through the short hair, tugging a bit at it.

“Ah, fuck,” John moaned and jolted up into Sherlock, dragging a whimper from the man.

Sherlock rode John hard, his cock slapping both their bellies on each bounce. Sherlock began to moan louder and longer, so John sat up, rotating his hips and covering Sherlock's mouth with his own. He took hold of the cock between their bodies and stroked vigorously, using his thumb against the head. The only warning he got was a higher pitched whine into his mouth before Sherlock began to come, covering both their chests. John wasn't too far behind, the contractions of Sherlock's orgasm forcing his own from him. John fell back, Sherlock on top of him.

Thankful for the towels, John rolled them both and grabbed one from underneath himself and wiped down their chests. His cock slid from Sherlock and the taller man finally moved off him. They ended up in the opposite position of the their first time: John was on his back and Sherlock was on his stomach. 

John ran his hand down Sherlock's back. “Need anything?”

“Mmm. No, thank you,” he smiled sleepily. “Such an attentive lover.”

John grinned back and ducked his head, planting a kiss on Sherlock's temple. “Sleep then.”

“Mmm. G'night John.”


	10. History Hexes Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lio's back! Hey guess what song the chapter title is from

Her phone was alternating between an obnoxiously loud ring and the name of the caller, in this case Mycroft. She answered it suspiciously. “Da, it's Lio.”

“Good evening, Miss Verednikova. I take it you're at home?”

“Where else would I be. Not like I have a job.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Would you open the door please?”

She heard the knock in stereo, one through the phone and one on the actual door. She jerked it open. “You could have just started with the knock.”

He let himself in. “We both know you wouldn't have opened the door. I brought Chinese. Have you eaten?”

She inhaled deeply. “No, I haven't eaten, thank you.” They sat at the table and Mycroft distributed the cartons of food as well as a thermos of tea. They ate in silence. Lio was determined to wait him out, but Mycroft had infinite amounts of patience. Lio's was bordering on non-existent.

“Okay, why are you here and plying me with food?”

“The nystagmus is quite pronounced. I understand you're no longer taking medication for it.”

She'd gone off the baclofen about four months ago, after the seizures. It had stopped controlling the random eye movements and she didn't feel the need to replace it with another drug, though it had taken some noticeable stares, even for her, before she broke down and bought dark glasses. She realized the jerky, unfocused wandering of her eyes was disconcerting to most. “I wear glasses in public.” Lio cocked her head. “Does it bother you, that you don't know if I'm actually focusing on you?”

“Not at all, Miss Verednikova. Your eyes may not be focusing, but I know your attention is. It's that attention I have need of at the moment.”

Her brow furrowed. “How so?”

Mycroft sighed. “There was...an incident shortly before Sherlock returned to London. He was abducted and drugged for two days before he was able to escape. I was unable to find any connection to Moran or Moriarty, so, regretfully, I let it go. The drugs that were used in that incident have now appeared in London. I've retraced my investigation and have come up against some red tape. My government contacts aren't getting results or aren't working fast enough.”

“You want me to reach out to my military contacts.”

“Yes, very good. I know you still keep in touch with a few of them.”

“Keep in touch, da, that doesn't mean they'll give me state secrets though.”

“Miss Verednikova,” Mycroft's tone darkened. “This involves my brother. I will do whatever is necessary to protect him.”

Lio regarded him in her own way: he’d gone very still and stopped eating, he became tense, and he breathed slow and deep, as if preparing for a fight. She knew he would do anything for Sherlock despite their outward hateful appearance. She also knew that if he was asking for her help, he must really be up against a wall. Lio wasn't afraid of Mycroft, per se, but he was very much a fist of iron in a velvet glove.

“All right Mycroft, I'll see what I can do. Do you have anything I can work with?”

He placed a file on the table. “That is everything I have. I'm trusting you to release only necessary information.”

She nodded. “Give me a day or two.”

Mycroft stood to leave. “I'll let Sherlock know I've reopened the investigation.”

Lio put a hand on his arm just as he opened the door. “I wouldn't. They're, um, busy.”

“Ah.” Mycroft was silent for a moment. “Tomorrow then, Miss Verednikova.”

After he left, Lio opened the file Mycroft left and slid the papers into her scanner. She'd spent a considerable amount of money upgrading her technology: new computer, new audio set up, text to speech software, anything that would be helpful. She listened to what Mycroft had and made some edits, cutting out what she deemed unimportant. It wasn't necessary to let anyone know who this was all regarding or on who's behalf she was asking for information. A friend would suffice. She sent the redacted information to her former commander, then made a phone call.

“Colonel Golov, please. Tell him Major Verednikova needs to speak with him urgently.” She waited several minutes, listening to the world's worst hold music, before a booming voice suddenly broke in.

“Liolya! I just got your email; you better have a good explanation for sending me this at nineteen hundred hours on a weekend.”

“I owe a friend, and told him I would look into it for him. Anything you can do?”

“You want me to look into club kids playing chemist? C'mon Liolya.”

“Colonel, you know me better than that. It's a little more complicated. The drugs have ended up here in London. It's causing problems for the locals.”

The Colonel sighed. “Nothing good ever comes of doing you favors. Last time my car ended up on fire.”

Lio gave an indignant squawk. “That was 13 years ago and the other guy ran the light!”

“Then what about the time I tried to make you a trainer? You were supposed to help my son pass his firearms qualifications but he still failed!”

“That's because he shot me! During the test!”

There was a beat of silence. “It was just a graze! What about when I suggested to the General-Major that you should take his son to the formal? I talked you up to him for weeks, trying to get you into his good graces, maybe get you a promotion, and when he finally agreed, what did you do?”

“You can't blame me for that. That kid was missing half his teeth, had an unintelligible lisp, more hair in his ears than a fucking donkey and smelled like one...There was no way I was dancing with that disaster.”

The Colonel howled with laughter, “Ah, Liolya it's always good to hear from you. We need to talk more often. So many good memories. I don't think I have much of anything for you now, but I've got someone nearby that can get more. Give him 48 hours or so, I'll give him your contact info and have him set up a meeting.”

“Someone nearby?”

“Mmhmm. I've expanded my horizons a little bit, Liolya. Things have changed, gotta do what I can.”

“Yeah, I understand. I'll wait to hear from him, then. Thanks Colonel, I owe you.” She disconnected and frowned slightly in confusion. Last she checked, Golov was still with Alpha Group, so him working on something international where he'd have an operative in western Europe was very unusual. He did say things had changed, so maybe that was it.

/*/*/*/

Mycroft collected her shortly after lunch the next day, and they headed up to 221B to discuss things with Sherlock and John. Mycroft let himself in to their flat as if he lived there, though he did pause before opening the door, allowing Lio time to let him know if the two men were “busy.” 

“Mycroft, you have a phone and know how to use it. I don’t understand why you insist on ‘dropping by’ as if you’re making a social call,” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes, well, if I asked permission I’d never be allowed in.”

“Perhaps you should take a hint.”

“Boys,” John said, attempting to settle the Holmes brothers. “Oh, Lio! It’s good to see you! I mean, we live in the same building, but we hardly ever talk. How have you been?”

She waved a hand. “Eh, nothing exciting. I know you were busy with physical therapy, so don’t worry about it. I can tell you’re steadier on the stairs; you’ve recovered well?”

John nodded before catching himself. “Yeah, took longer than I was expecting between the ankle, foot, and shoulder, but I’m back to normal. How about you? Your arm okay?”

“Da. No lasting damage. I’ve been told it’s a nice straight scar.”

“The dark glasses are hiding the nystagmus,” Sherlock said. “You don’t have to do that around us.”

She shrugged. “Force of habit to put them on when I leave the flat.” She shoved them on top of her head.

John was thankful she couldn’t see the look of sympathy on his face. He understood why she wore the glasses. “Shall I get tea ready then? I assume you’re here to talk about Volgograd.”

Sherlock grimaced.

“We’ll have to get it over with eventually, Sherlock,” John said from the kitchen.

“Quite so. If you’ll have a look at my original investigation. I believe you were distracted the first time around,” Mycroft said, making himself comfortable in the arm chair. Lio sat at one end of the couch and Sherlock plopped down in the middle. Mycroft’s files were spread out in front of them when John returned with tea. He took a seat next to Sherlock.

“After I gained all the information I could from you, I sent some agents to investigate the house you were kept in. There was no one in it, of course. They gathered minimal evidence. After analyzing it, I determined that the incident had nothing to do with Moran and was the work of local thugs. I dismissed it.”

“Wait, what? Four men kidnap and drug Sherlock and you dismissed it? What the fuck Mycroft?” John bit out incredulously.

Mycroft took a deep breath through his nose. “Correct. A choice I regret, as it’s a mistake that’s now come back to haunt us.”

“Quite the mistake. And one you clearly can’t fix on your own, considering Lio’s here,” Sherlock said, fixing his brother with a cold glare.

“Yes, well, I’ve been stymied by bureaucratic red tape at every turn.”

“You don’t say,” John deadpanned.

Ignoring both John and Sherlock, Mycroft said, “I asked for Miss Verednikova’s assistance, counting on her military contacts to be able to work around the bureaucracy.”

Sherlock turned to Lio. “Have they?”

“I called my old Colonel last night after sending him some of the information Mycroft had gathered. He told me he had someone in the area that should be able to help. I’m meeting him for dinner tomorrow. I’ll let you know after that.”

“Lio--” Sherlock started.

“That’s not normal, I’m aware. I intend to be armed when I meet this guy.”

It was John’s turn. “Lio, there’s no reason a Russian agent should be in London. At least one of us should go with you.”

“Absolutely not. If he sees I’ve been followed or have back up, it might spook him and then we get nothing. And there’s plenty of reasons why he would be here, just nothing that makes sense for Golov to be involved in. Or why he would agree to meet me.”

“All the more reason you should have an escort, Miss Verednikova.”

“Ostanovit yego. I’m not defenseless. I’ll be fine.”

“Very well, Miss Verednikova.” Mycroft gathered up his things. “We’ll meet tomorrow after your date, then.” With a nod to Sherlock and John, he left.

“I still don’t like it,” John said.

Lio stood. “I’ll be fine,” she said again, making her way to the door. She turned before heading back down to her flat. “Completely unrelated. You two might want to invest in noise canceling panels or something.” She chuckled as she left, hearing John splutter in embarrassment.

/*/*/*/

“We really shouldn’t be here, Sherlock. If she finds out we followed her...”

“She won’t. Are you forgetting she’s blind, John? We would literally have to announce ourselves.”

John frowned. They were on the roof across the street from the restaurant, having used Mycroft’s surveillance to track her here. Sherlock was scanning the area, watching for Lio’s contact, and John was keeping an eye on Lio herself, who was sitting on a bench in front of the restaurant. The two men were relatively inconspicuous against the darkening sky and they had enough cover on the rooftop to duck behind if necessary. They waited only a few minutes before Sherlock whapped John on the arm and pointed. 

“There. The cab that just pulled up. Black hair, goatee, dark coat, maybe six feet tall but the coat is hiding a muscular build.”

“I see him, he’s headed for Lio.” He had the Browning in his hands, just in case.

The man stopped next to Lio, who jerked her head in his direction, then paused for a moment before leaping to her feet and throwing her arms around the man.

Sherlock and John looked at each other.

“Well.”

/*/*/*/*/*/

Lio hoped he wasn’t going to be much longer. People were beginning to stare, probably thinking she’d been stood up. 

She suddenly registered someone approaching and stopping in her space.

“You haven’t forgotten my voice, have you?”

Her head tilted in the speaker’s direction as she processed the voice. Her face split into a grin and she jumped to her feet, laughing and throwing her arms open. The man took a small step into them and the two seeming strangers hugged tightly.

“Sergei! Holy shit!”

“Good to see you, Major.”

Lio grimaced. “I’m not your Major anymore, you can call me Lio.”

Sergei smiled softly. “You’ll always be our Major. Come on, I have reservations, and these people are looking at us funny, speaking in Russian on their English soil.” He gently took Lio’s arm and led her inside, where they were in turn led to a table. They ordered, and Lio allowed Sergei to order for her though she was offered a Braille menu, something she hadn’t come across in a restaurant before.

While they were waiting for their food, Sergei put a thumb drive on the table. “Everything I’ve got. I assumed you wouldn’t be the only one looking at it, so there are a few pictures, but mostly it’s documentation. Where it started and how it spread.”

She put the drive in her pocket. “Thanks Sergei, I appreciate this. Thank Golov for me too. Can I ask what you’re up to in London?”

“I wasn’t actually in the UK; I was working on something for Golov in—elsewhere—when he called.”

Lio noticed the stumble but didn’t comment. She nodded. “I thought you retired from Alpha Group?”

“Yeah, I did. After, well after everything, I stepped away. Couldn’t stay idle long though, and started consulting for Alpha Group and the FSB. Do some training too, and I work with Golov quite a bit. He talked me into coming back after you left Russia.”

Their food arrived and conversation stopped for a few minutes as they ate.

“You seem well, Lio, I’m glad. You weren’t nearly this confident or as in good spirits the last time I saw you.”

Lio smiled a little sadly. “That was what, ten, nine years ago? I wasn’t in a good place then. Coming here and starting over helped. I’ve got a great neurologist and I’ve been able to make a few friends, something that wasn’t happening in Russia. I’m glad you’ve been able to move on too, and find another purpose.”

“Yeah. It’s been...good. Using my skills again. Money’s not bad either,” he said with a laugh.

Lio grinned in return. “It never was.”

As they finished their meal, Lio asked, “Do you want to come back to my flat? Catch up a little more?”

“That would be great, yeah.”

Sergei paid (she wouldn’t say it, but Lio was grateful; this restaurant was way outside her price range) and the two caught a cab back to 221C.

As they pulled up, Sergei remarked, “Nice place.”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

Sergei chuckled. He also paid for the cab ride, which Lio didn’t comment on. She unlocked the door and let them in, waving a hand with a flourish. “Welcome to Casa De Verednikova. Bathroom’s down the hall on your left.”

“Ah, thanks.” As he went to the bathroom, Lio went to her room and locked up her gun, thankful she hadn’t had a need for it. The hug she’d given Sergei was not entirely innocent; she hadn’t felt any weapons on him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying elsewhere. They were trained not to be obvious about it. It was why she carried hers strapped to her calf. 

“You want tea or coffee?” she called after heading to the kitchen.

“Tea’s fine,” he said, right behind her and she yelped.

“Jesus Christ, make some noise!”

He laughed. 

While they waited for the tea, Sergei sat on the couch. “So, tell me about these friends of yours that have you looking into this weird drug cocktail.”

Lio leaned against the counter. “They actually live upstairs. You might run into them at some point if you hang around. They work with the local police, and one of them at one point was working on an international case. He ran into this in Russia.” Not a lie, but intentionally vague.

“Hmm. Do you know what it is?”

“I know what heroin and fentanyl are, haven’t heard of 25I. I assume it’s why Golov mentioned club kids; but this is way too sophisticated.”

“Right. 25I, also known as Nbomb. It’s a powerful hallucinogenic and one of the few that can be fatal in high doses. Usually see it at the clubs along with ecstasy and DMT, but you’re right, you wouldn’t see tweakers with that combination.”

The kettle boiled and Lio brought Sergei his tea and sat next to him on the couch with her own. “Strange that it would end up in London. You know more about it than I was expecting. The drug, I mean.”

“Hmm. I’ve run into it before, working with Golov. Mostly western Russia. I haven’t seen it internationally yet.”

A brief frown crossed her face at “yet,” but she hoped the glasses, which she still wore, masked it. “Well, I’ll give your info to the two detectives upstairs tomorrow and they can take it from there. Nothing else I’ll be able to help them with afterwards anyway.”

“Probably best for you to stay out of it from here.”

She nodded eagerly. “Don’t need to tell me twice.”

They talked a bit more, Lio discovered Sergei was staying in a very fancy hotel for a seemingly unlimited amount of time. He invited her over the day after tomorrow, after she gave Sherlock and John the thumb drive. She readily agreed. Though she honestly wanted to spend more time with an old friend, something wasn’t adding up here. This wasn’t right, and the last time she ignored her instincts, three of her men had been killed.


	11. This Mind Spirals in Disarray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, Mycroft, and Lio try to figure out wtf is going on and who's involved in it.   
> one guess at where the chapter title's from.

Lio brought the drive up to 221B early the following morning after making a copy for herself. By the time they reconvened after dinner, they’d been able to go over the information. Mycroft was already there nursing a tumbler of brandy when Lio arrived. John offered her some out of politeness, but Lio turned him down, the occasional shot of vodka all the alcohol she could handle.

They sat at their usual places; Mycroft in John’s chair, John and Sherlock next to each other on the couch, and Lio taking the remaining spot to Sherlock’s right. Sherlock’s laptop, with the thumb drive, and Mycroft’s files were on the coffee table.

Mycroft began. “According to Mr Alenin’s files, the Russian government became aware of this combination three weeks before it was used on you in Volgograd. He states that a drug-runner for a dealer turned up dead in Voronezh. Mr Alenin went to investigate, since he was on assignment for the FSB to bring down the dealer.”

“Sergei figured the runner was just a stupid kid who went clubbing the night before and when he sampled the product, the combination killed him. And I’m not going to ask why or how you know that’s Sergei.” Lio said, shaking her head.

“There’s no one else it could be, based on your reaction to him at the restaurant.”

“Oooooh, I should’ve known you’d follow me, Sherlock, but I was hoping John would keep you in check.”

“He went with me.”

“John Watson! You’re supposed to be the voice of reason!” Lio snapped, though it was good natured.

“I know, but I have to admit I was curious too. Sorry,” John said sheepishly.

Lio shook her head, muttering, “You two...”

“Ahem. To get back on track. Mr Alenin found more evidence scattered across western Russia, up to the Ukrainian border, but his notes state he never crossed international lines.”

“He was in Volgograd,” Sherlock said quietly. He’d been oddly subdued all night, even when he admitted to following her earlier. There was also an edge to his voice that Lio didn’t think John and Mycroft were hearing.

Lio frowned. “It’s not mentioned. He talks about traveling to other cities hunting the drug dealer and finding this combination every once in a while, but not Volgograd.”

“There’s a photo. I recognize where it was taken.”

“What? How do you recognize--?” John began.

“It was the house.” 

There was sharp intake of breath from both John and Mycroft. Lio didn’t know the full details of what happened to Sherlock in Volgograd, but she assumed “the house” had something to do with it. She heard a few taps on the keyboard as Sherlock presumably brought the picture up.

“This was taken from _inside_. His own documentation says this picture was taken in Saratov, which is a lie. The time-stamp indicates it was taken on 13th November, which is the day I escaped. That means if he was really in Saratov, he wouldn’t have had enough time to get to Volgograd to take this picture. It means he was already in Volgograd.” He stood up and began pacing. “The _chair_ is visible, barely, in the corner of the frame. Sergei captioned it as a ‘drug den’ but the house is empty. Drug dens have paraphernalia scattered about, they have evidence of squatters, there’s old clothes, old food containers, old furniture, _something_ , but this place is clean. Even in my drug-addled mind, I knew it was too clean. This wasn’t something that was used repeatedly, this house was used once, to hold one person: me. It was abandoned afterward. Too risky to keep using.” He stopped and faced them, breathing heavily. “I was supposed to die there or be too high to remember anything.”

John got up and went to him. He stood next to Sherlock and rubbed a hand gently up and down the taller man’s back. “Steady Sherlock. Remember you’re safe here.”

He narrowed his eyes at John. “Am I?” He broke away and stalked over to Lio, who involuntarily shrank back a little as Sherlock leaned into her space. “What are you doing here?”

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed. He started towards them, but at a slight shake of the head from Mycroft, stopped.

Lio’s madly dancing eyes jerked to a halt as she focused on staring at Sherlock. “Are you fucking kidding me? You think I had something to do with what happened to you in Volgograd? You think I planned for Sergei to be the one to come here? You think I don’t know that this whole scenario is _tenevoy_ as fuck? Back off, Sherlock, or I will kick you in the _khuy_ and I don’t think John will be happy about that either.”

Sherlock did back off, but only just out of range.

Lio stood, frowning angrily. “I’m meeting Sergei tomorrow at his hotel. I’m going to get more information. As much as I don’t want him, or Golov for that matter, to be involved, there’s way too much here for him not to be, at least tangentially. This bullshit won’t happen to me twice. Mycroft, do you still have the file on me that you gave Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“Send it to me.” She nodded in their general direction. “I’ll keep you posted,” she left, slamming the door on her way out.

“Well done, Sherlock,” Mycroft said disapprovingly.

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I’d say you were a bad influence on him, John, but he’s always had a bit of a temper. I wish you luck.” He left as well, though with less door slamming.

John sighed. “Why don’t I make some tea.” He went into the kitchen

“You can’t fix everything with tea, John!” 

John slowly turned to him. “Sherlock, don’t _ever_ raise your voice to me like that again. I know you’re frustrated and angry, but that doesn’t give you the right to take it out on me. Now, I’m going to make tea, then you and I are going to have a calm, rational discussion like the calm, rational adults we are, okay?”

He didn’t get a verbal response from Sherlock, who had a look on his face similar to a kicked puppy, so John proceeded with tea. He set Sherlock’s cup in front of him when it was finished. The other man was on the couch with his head bowed and his hands dangling between his knees, a very un-Sherlock-like posture.

“I’m sorry John, you’re right. I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he said quietly at the floor.

“Most people appreciate an apology to their face,” John said softly.

Sherlock looked up. “You’re not most people.”

John smiled and sat next to him, settling an arm around his shoulders. “Obviously. I fell in love with a madman.”

Sherlock snorted lightly. He leaned into John. “I know she didn’t have anything to do with Volgograd, but it can’t be a coincidence that Sergei has all this information and was one of her teammates.”

“You don’t believe in coincidences.”

“No. That means he’s using her for something, but what? She’s twelve years out of the service, is blind, and lives in a foreign country. What use could he possibly gain from that? Unless he’s using her to get closer to me. I got away from Volgograd. I know what these ‘dealers’ look like.” Sherlock suddenly froze. He shot to his feet and ran to the bedroom, where he jerked open his desk drawer and pulled out a file. He rifled through it frantically.

John joined him, a puzzled frown on his face. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock threw a photo down on the bed. “That’s all five of them. On the end, who is that?”

Not knowing where Sherlock was going with this, but humoring him, John picked up the photo. He realized this was “Lio’s file,” the one Mycroft put together for Sherlock. “That’s Sergei, though he looks different now, older and with more facial hair. Sherlock?”

Sherlock sank onto the bed, a hand over his mouth. John hadn’t seen him this unnerved since Baskerville. “He was there.”

“Right, you said he took the pictures.”

“No no no, he was there. I didn’t recognize him at first at the restaurant; it was at a distance, and these are older pictures. He was one of them. How could I have missed it? Stupid stupid...”

“Oi, Sherlock, hold on. Take a slow breath. You’re saying that Sergei was one of the people that held you captive in that house? He wasn’t just in the city?”

Sherlock started pacing the bedroom. “Yes! I was more focused on Lio when I looked at that file the first time so I _missed_ it, and his looks have changed in twelve years. I wasn’t expecting this, so I _missed_ it! How could I have _missed_ something so important!”

John grabbed his arms and forced him to sit. “I need you to breathe, Sherlock. It doesn’t matter that you missed it. We know now. We need to find out what he’s doing here. And we need to warn Lio. He’s more involved than she realizes.”

Sherlock got back to his feet, nearly knocking John over in the process and began pacing again. “He’s here to finish the job. I know too much. The ‘great Sherlock Holmes’ unravels an international drug cartel that was headed by members of the Russian military.”

“C’mon, Sherlock, you don’t know that.”

“Why else would he be here if not for me? What reason could he possibly have for coming here? He discovered Lio knew me, and is using her to get close to me!” He turned to John, wild-eyed. “Oh God, that means you’re in danger too!”

“Sherlock! Stop. You’re jumping to way too many conclusions. That’s not like you. It’s getting late; tomorrow we’ll go down and talk to Lio and see if we can straighten some of this out. You don’t have all the data yet. Until then, I need you to relax.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat back down on the bed. He reached for John and buried his head in John’s stomach. “I’m sorry. I...I just...I don’t like this. There’s too many unknowns.”

John stroked his head. “I know.” They stayed like that for a few moments before John said “We’re already in here; let’s go to bed. We’ll figure this out in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded against his stomach.


	12. Liars in My Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns how much he means to Sherlock.  
> chapter title from "dystopia" off polaris by tesseract

John knocked on Lio’s door just after lunch time. He leaned on the frame as she opened it. She squinted at him in confusion. “John?”

“Yeah. Do you have some time? Can I come in?”

She stepped back. “Of course. Tea? Or coffee? You sound exhausted.”

He sat on her couch with a sigh. “Yes, coffee, please. I can’t stay long. Sherlock’s asleep. Finally. I need to talk to you, though.”

Lio sat at a kitchen chair while waiting for the coffee. “What’s going on? Is he all right?”

John sighed again. “Yes and no. He...got a little crazed last night. Sorry he accused you of being involved.”

Lio shook her head. “It’s fine. I get it. This comes back to haunt him and I’m the most sensible target. What’s going on?” she asked again.

“He’s going to kill me for telling you. He had nightmares. All night. Sometimes it took him a while to recognize me.” John closed his eyes and rested his head against the couch, Sherlock’s terrified expression flitting through his mind. He opened his eyes. “He dreamed of the house. They had him restrained, tied to a chair, and they drugged him repeatedly with that freakish combination. He hallucinated. I think he hallucinated last night too, he was having multiple flashbacks. I don’t think he slept at all.” John ran a hand down his face. “I didn’t.”

The coffee finished brewing, and Lio poured a cup for John, adding a splash of vodka before bringing it to him. He simply held it for a moment, letting it warm his hands. “I’ve never seen him like that. At first he thought I was in trouble, being held with him. Once I convinced him otherwise, he kept begging me to leave him behind. He said he was damaged and couldn’t think straight anymore. He kept seeing Moriarty. I told him he’d been dead for a while, and he pointed behind me and said ‘he’s right there.’ Scared the shit out of me. At some point, I think he understood that what he was seeing wasn’t real, but he still wanted me to go. He didn’t want me to see him like that.” He gulped at the spiked coffee.

Lio sought out his hand and held it gently, a concerned frown marring her features.

“Lio, he remembers seeing Sergei inside the house. Sergei was there, and watched Sherlock get drugged.”

“John,” she started, taking a deep breath. She ran her free hand through her hair before finally releasing John’s. “I read Mycroft’s file on me. It had the most recent information on all my former associates, from me up through the general of the army. Everyone’s retired except Lieutenant Colonel Kedrov and Colonel Golov. Kedrov’s now a colonel in a different branch of the army and doesn’t work with the Alpha Group anymore. I also did some discreet checking on my own, just in case Mycroft’s people missed something. Unlikely, I know, but I had to make sure his information was accurate.”

“What does--”

“Sergei retired in 2007. He couldn’t stick with a unit after the ‘incident,’ and it sounds like he had some discipline issues. Do you see?” Lio was shaking her head slowly and widely. “Sergei hasn’t been part of the Russian military for eight years.”

“He’s been lying to you.”

“And so has Golov. There’s nothing in the file indicating he has an official side project either with the military or the FSB. They’re working together on whatever this drug thing is. I figure Sergei’s the point man, scouting out new locations and introducing the drugs.”

“What does this have to do with Sherlock?”

“That I haven’t figured out yet. I’m still going to Sergei’s hotel tonight; I’ll get more information then.”

“Lio, no. That’s way too dangerous. You know that he hasn’t been giving you accurate info. Why risk it?”

John wasn’t quite prepared for the expression on Lio’s face. Her lips pulled back in a snarl, baring her teeth wolfishly. “Because I’m tired of people underestimating me, and I missed the signs of a trap once. It won’t happen again.”

/*/*///*//*/*/*/

John returned from Lio’s slightly unnerved. He was surprised to find Sherlock awake and waiting for him in the kitchen with tea and toast, despite it being nearly dinner time.

“I didn’t think either of us would want a large meal. We do have some tins of soup, though, we could warm that up.”

“This should be fine,” John said, sitting heavily at the table. He nibbled on a piece of toast. 

Sherlock joined him and sat awkwardly for a few moments, “Thank you, for everything you did last night. I hope nothing I said or did hurt you.”

John shook his head. “Of course not. I’m glad I was able to be there when you needed me.” His brow creased thoughtfully. “Can we talk about what happened? What you saw? Even before we went to bed, you were a bit manic. I know this isn’t something that comes easily for you, but I want to understand, I want to help. Can you tell me?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit in remembered fear. “John, I...”

“You don’t have to talk about the house, at least not in detail. I know enough of what happened. Unless there’s something you want to add, we can avoid it.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “My behavior last night...when I analyze my actions and motives, I realize that everything I did was because of you.”

“...I’m sorry?”

“You’ve become so important to me that I focus on your protection, on your happiness, on you, that I lose everything else. Discovering that Sergei had seen me in that house triggered the need to protect you. It didn’t matter that I was likely the one in the most danger; it only mattered that you were close to me and could be in that same danger. I dreamed of him keeping you in that house instead of me, drugged beyond reason, of him using you against me like Moran did, of him turning into Moriarty and blowing you up at the pool. When I stopped dreaming, I wanted to kill him, for hurting you. He’d already tortured me, but doing that to you, even in my nightmares, was more than I could bear.”

John was silent for several moments. “Sherlock...” he started slowly, “That’s all...creepily romantic, and I’m flattered that you want to protect me, and if I’m ever in that kind of trouble, please feel free to come to my rescue, but...I don’t want you to lose yourself in me. I need you to be able to focus and protect yourself, Sherlock, because the alternative...” his breath hitched a little as he remembered the fall, “The alternative is unthinkable.” 

Sherlock met John’s eyes. “I—Yes, I understand,” he said solemnly, as if he were taking a vow.

John nodded. “Good, and I’ll do the same.” He sighed heavily, changing the subject. “I was downstairs, talking to Lio. She’s still going to meet with Sergei. She knows he and Golov have been lying to her. She said she double checked on her own, and confirmed Mycroft's information. I don’t like that she’s doing this alone. If Sergei figures out that she’s on to him...although I didn’t think she could take Moran either, but she handled him pretty well.”

“Up until he pinned her to the floor.”

“Yes, well.” John looked at his watch. It was still far too early to go to bed, but he didn’t feel up to any other activities tonight. Perhaps he could convince Sherlock to watch Lord of the Rings.


	13. My Back, Your Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some M/F het sex between Lio and Sergei.   
> chapter title from "palingenesis" off altered state by tesseract

Lio entered the hotel lobby, inhaling deeply. Large public spaces in general were always a bit of challenge to navigate and sort out, but hotels seemed to be particularly troublesome with their vaulted ceilings, wide open spaces, and diverse clientele. This one also had a restaurant and bar, so the smells of food were intermingled with the smells of leather from suitcases, the harsh chemicals used to keep everything spotless, chlorine from what she assumed was a very fancy water feature, and the melange of scents from the various cultures visiting the hotel. She took a moment to get her bearings. Thankfully it wasn’t very busy in the lobby, so she was able to head toward the concierge desk without bumping into things. It was irritating to have to tote everywhere, but the cane was a blessing.

She didn’t make it too far before she heard Sergei’s voice call her name. Lio turned toward him as he jogged up.

“Perfect timing!” he said. “C’mon, I’ll take you up to the room.”

Lio looked back to the restaurant.

Sergei chuckled. “You ever hear of ‘room service,’ Lio? It’s already waiting upstairs.” 

They arrived at the room a short while later and settled in for a classic steak dinner, though Sergei had somehow gotten his hands on something rather unusual for London. Lio sniffed the air like a bloodhound a few times before she caught it. 

“Sergei. Do you have borscht?”

“Yes I do,” he said with a laugh.

Lio made a disgusted face. “Ugh, I forgot you were the one that was addicted to that. Just because you’re Russian doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

“I do like it, though. Grandma made it every Sunday.”

“Ugh,” she said again, and shivered. 

They continued dinner with nostalgic stories of their time together in the service; of the shenanigans their unit would pull; Lio crashing Golov’s car, which she still maintained was the other driver’s fault. When they finished eating, ending with Sergei obnoxiously slurping down the borscht just to irritate her, Lio wandered around the room while Sergei put their dirty dishes out in the hallway. She hated feeling as if she were the one lying to him when it was the other way around. She shouldn’t feel guilty about this, dammit. He came back to find her on one of the sofas and joined her.

“I get the feeling this is more like a penthouse suite rather than a typical room. I’m picturing the bed with a canopy.”

“No canopy, but it is king-size. Pretty big for one person.”

Lio raised an eyebrow, then suddenly felt something next to her head. Sergei had his hands near the glasses.

“Can I take them off? I miss being able to see your eyes.”

Sergei was never particularly subtle about his affection for her, but due to their line of work and her position as his superior officer, nothing ever came of it. Lio found him attractive back then and assumed not much had changed his looks, though it would be hard to tell without a more “hands on inspection.” She came to the hotel tonight knowing this was the direction things would likely go, and while she hoped she would be able to get him to talk without sex, that didn’t seem to be where they were heading. Sex was Plan B, and she’d have to wear him out. 

She nodded in response to Sergei’s question, hoping her hesitation would be explained by what the glasses were hiding.

He pulled the glasses off and paused before saying, “I’ve heard that can happen. I’m sorry.”

She heard the sincerity in his voice and the guilty feeling grew. “I hope it doesn’t...bother you.”

Sergei leaned in. “Not at all.” He kissed her gently, one hand coming up to rest on the back of her neck with his thumb stroking her cheek and jaw. He pulled back after a few seconds.

Lio put a hand over her mouth and her shoulders started to shake.

“What? Lio, what’s wrong?”

Unable to stop herself, she broke into a fit of giggles. “You taste like borscht!”

Sergei was shocked into silence for several moments before coming back to himself, “Fuck you! You taste like garlic!”

The two of them began laughing in earnest and it was nearly five minutes before they got control of themselves. 

“So, what, should we brush our teeth?”

Lio giggled again and waved a hand. “No, no. I’m fine with borscht if you’re fine with garlic.”

“Good. Why waste more time. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this. I couldn’t do anything while you were Major Verednikova, and then you were injured, and then you left. I never had a chance.”

She reached for him, ruthlessly pushing through the self-condemnation. “Now is your chance. Now we’re just Sergei and Lio. Now I won’t break. Now I’m _here_.”

Sergei tackled her backwards onto the sofa and kissed her again, running his hands under her shirt and over her bra. Lio reached for his shirt and untucked it from his pants and began unbuttoning it. He moved his hands around to her back and pulled her up into his lap, moving his mouth down her jaw to her neck. Lio tossed her head back, but still removed his shirt. She raked her blunt fingernails down his chest, causing his breath to hitch. He licked at the hollow of her throat before taking her shirt off. His hands, still on her back, unclasped her bra and tossed it aside.

“Pretty good to do that without being able to see,” Lio said a little breathlessly. He didn’t say anything, only clamped his mouth on a newly exposed nipple and massaged both breasts. “Jesus!” she gasped, and arched into him. She felt him smile, the arrogant jerk, so she slid her hand down and opened Sergei’s pants. Lio slipped her hand in, teasing her fingers over his hard cock. 

He pulled his mouth off her breasts. “Why don’t we move to the bed?”

“You mean that king-size bed that you not-so-subtly tried to get me in earlier?”

Sergei huffed a laugh and stood, taking Lio with him. She let out an undignified squeak in response, but wrapped her legs around his waist and let herself be carried to bed. He placed her gently on the bed, causing her to chuckle. “I told you I’m not gonna break.”

He crawled over her, hands on either side of her shoulders and knees straddling her thighs. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” She reached up with both hands and touched his face, tracing his eyebrows and the crows feet at the corners of his eyes with her thumbs, his ears with her fingertips, and sweeping them to his cheeks and jaw and nose before coming to rest gently on his lips. “I know this face. I know you. I trust you.” She felt another little stab of shame and shoved it roughly aside.

He kissed her deeply, then began moving down her body, kissing as he went. He spent some time on her breasts; she moaned and buried her fingers in his hair before he went to her waist and unbuttoned her pants. Sergei pulled them and her underwear down agonizingly slow, still kissing as he went but avoiding the growing wetness between her legs. 

“Sergei...” she whined low in warning. 

“So impatient.” Lio could hear the grin, but before she could slap it off him, his hands were on her knees, pushing them apart. And then his mouth was on her and she forgot why she wanted to slap him. Sergei opened her with his fingers and tongued her clit, occasionally driving his tongue as deep as he could into her pussy. Lio put one hand on his head and the other switched between playing with both nipples. 

It had been a long time since she’d had sex with another person and doing it herself was never as good, so before too long she felt an orgasm building.

“Sergei, oh fuck, I’m gonna come, fuckfuckfuck!” She arched as her pussy pulsed around Sergei’s mouth. He pulled off with a final swipe of his tongue over her sensitive clit that sent a shiver down her spine. “Oh, fuck me,” she panted.

“That was the plan.”

“I bet.” She was still a little breathless, but rolled to her knees and reached for Sergei, who had to shuffle a little closer. Lio kissed him hard, tasting herself on his lips, and shoved his open pants down to his thighs. She tugged on his hard cock a few times before asking, “What do you want? My mouth? Or my pussy?”

“Both.”

“Greedy.”

He got off the bed and she could hear him remove his pants entirely. “Come to the edge of the bed. I want your mouth first.”

Lio heard the grin again, but figured after the orgasm he just gave her, he was entitled to it. She knelt close to the edge, and Sergei guided his cock to her mouth. He was bigger than she was expecting and she hadn’t done this in a while, so she started slow, licking the head and shaft before trying to put it in her mouth. Once inside, she flattened her tongue for broad strokes on the underside and teasing little nibbles with her lips around the head and slit. She bobbed on his cock for several minutes, rolling his balls in one hand while the other hand wrapped around what her mouth couldn’t reach. He was rocking slightly, and obviously trying not to force himself down her throat, so he must be getting close. Lio took her mouth off his cock and moved to sucking his balls. He began moaning her name, and she put her free hand between her legs. She moaned with him. 

Sergei tugged on her hair and she moved away. “What?”

“I’m close.”

“Yes? You afraid you won’t be good enough for another round?” Lio taunted with a smirk. Sergei growled, and with the hand that was still on her head, pulled her forward. “Thought so,” she muttered before taking him back in. 

It wasn’t too much longer before he had to warn her. “Lio!” She ignored the warning, only bobbing her head faster and rocking on her fingers harder. The first shot hit the back of her throat and she swallowed automatically, the rest hitting her tongue and pooling in her mouth before she swallowed. She came on her fingers immediately after, clenching around the digits before she pulled them out. He grabbed her hand and licked her fingers noisily.

“Lay back,” he ordered, and as she did, she heard the telltale rustling of a condom packet being opened. A few moments later, the bed tipped as he climbed between her legs again. Sergei put the tip of his cock against her pussy and ran it up and down a few times, gathering the wetness. “Ready?” he asked and positioned himself at her entrance.

Lio nodded. “Go easy, it’s been a while.”

Sergei pushed in slowly, breathing heavily. Lio winced a few times as she was stretched, and once he was fully seated inside, she rotated her hips gently to get used to it. “Fuck me, Sergei.”

Given permission, he pulled out almost fully before plunging back in, causing Lio to gasp. He did this a few times, then increased the pace. Lio leaned up and kissed him, and dragged her nails down his back to his arse and back up. Sergei groaned into her mouth, and shifted them so she was sitting in his lap as he jerked his hips up. He had one hand on her back to steady her and the other played with her nipples and breasts. She kissed down his jaw, down to his neck and sucked at his pulse points.

The orgasm hit Lio by surprise, and she came hard around Sergei. “Ah, fuck. No no, don’t stop moving! We’re not done yet!” she said as Sergei slowed down. “Actually...” She shoved Sergei onto his back so she was sitting on him. Lio rolled her hips and leaned over him. “I like this better. Let me take you for a ride, Sergei.”

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Lio woke some time in the late morning hours and grabbed her phone from her bag, which thankfully hadn’t been lost in the marathon sex. She listened to Sergei’s heavy breathing from the bed and smirked; she had indeed worn him out, though she was a little sore herself. Lio started hunting for his phone. His computer would likely be far too protected for her to get any information out of, and it would definitely be noticed if it was missing, so taking it was out of the question. Plan B involved getting all the data off his phone, which wouldn’t be as protected. 

It took longer than she was hoping, but she found it in his pants, which somehow ended up under the bed. Taking both phones, her headphones and a USB cable, she went to the bathroom and locked the door. She fumbled with the cable for a few minutes, struggling with the unfamiliar phone. Worst case scenario, she’d take the whole damn thing, but Lio wanted as much of a buffer as she could get before Sergei realized something was wrong. Finally able to connect the phones, she listened to the prompts to transfer data from one to the other. She had to whisper her responses, which caused a few problems, but she got the download started. 

Lio waited impatiently for several minutes, all the while keeping an ear out for Sergei in case he woke. After the longest seven minutes of her life, the download completed. She disconnected everything, and before leaving the bathroom, sent a text to Sherlock and John to meet her at her apartment in two hours. That should give her enough time to leave without being too suspicious. She left the bathroom, put Sergei’s phone back in his pants and kicked them under the bed, and put the cable, headphones and phone back in her bag. 

She slid back into the bed and trailed a few kisses along Sergei’s back and shoulders, and let her hand draw slow patterns on his chest.

“Hmmmm...good morning,” Sergei rumbled, and rolled over to face her. He kissed her softly, and pushed up on one arm before dropping back down with a grunt. “After 10 already.” He groaned in feigned agony. “Can we just stay here the rest of the day?”

Lio huffed. “I need food. You wore me out. Room service?”

“I wore you out? Jesus, woman, I’m pretty sure you left welts on my back, and my shoulders are killing me!”

“I told you you’d regret that fourth round against the wall. How do you think my back feels after that? Not to mention my hips. Does this room have a hot tub?”

“That’d be nice...”

He was silent for a few moments, and Lio listened to his breathing begin to even out. “Hey, hey, wake up, you bum!” she said, shaking him.

Sergei actually snorted in surprise.

“Listen, you want breakfast with me or not? Otherwise I’m gonna head out. I’m starving.”

“You don’t want to hang around and go again?”

“You’ve got energy for that, but not eating?” Lio shook her head and held up both hands. “Maybe some other time. Give my hips and back a chance to recover first. I feel like I’m walking bowlegged.”

“Suit yourself. Go on, get your damn food. I’ll call later, after I finish sleeping.” He rolled over onto his stomach and was asleep nearly instantly.

Lio gathered her things and called a cab, not quite believing she was about to get away with this. Sergei may have given her the best night of sex she’d had in a long time, but that didn’t excuse whatever this drug-running plot he was involved in with Golov. She’d trusted him with her life, once upon a time, and to have him repeatedly lie to her face was something she couldn’t forgive. Using sex to get access to the information she needed was her only option. At least that’s what she kept telling herself. 

She made her way down to the lobby, paranoid that Sergei was going to find that his phone had been tampered with and come after her before she could get the info to Sherlock. He never showed, and Lio breathed a sigh of relief as she hopped into the waiting cab.


	14. Brave Soldier, Kill Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end. This is the last chapter I have pre-written, just the epilogue is left. Enjoy the final confrontation.  
> chapter title is from "smile" off sonder by Tesseract

After a quick shower, Lio plugged her phone into her computer and downloaded what she took from Sergei’s phone. She was stuffing her face with a muffin when there was a knock on the door. She unlocked it and let Sherlock and John in.

“What did you find?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing yet, it should be about done downloading though,” Lio said, ignoring Sherlock’s expected lack of manners.

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t have sent this to me right away.”

“It’s all in Russian. Didn’t Mycroft say you had an issue with Cyrillic?”

“I’ve brushed up on it since then.”

Lio shrugged. “Well, too late now.” The computer beeped, indicating the download was finished. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve been hiding, Sergei.” She sat at the computer and used the arrow keys to find the newly downloaded file and open it. There were dozens of emails between Sergei and Golov, as well as a handful of text message threads that Sergei deemed important enough to save. Golov used a personal email address, more evidence that whatever they were doing was not official. She went down the email list, trying to find something from the Volgograd time period, and found a message from Sergei to Golov stating that they had a test subject. 

“That bastard. ‘Test subject,’ like you were some kind of experimental rat,” John seethed.

“It’s what they used Jason Reynolds for. Testing the market in London,” Sherlock said. 

Lio was frowning. “There’s nothing here about you, though. Not by name. The next messages are Sergei and Golov yelling at each other about your escape, but in the end they assume you must’ve been picked up by police or possibly succumbed to the elements and don’t look real hard for you. They also get wind of Mycroft’s hunt, but he was so far off base, they ignore it and move further west, towards Ukraine.” There was a slight pause as she went through the next few messages. “This batch is about moving into Poland and Germany and recruiting new members to expand their operations. I’d have to go back to the beginning, but this makes it sound like it’s just the two of them, though there has to be a chemist involved, making all this shit.” She went forward some more and shook her head. “This isn’t making sense. If they were targeting you, ‘the one that got away,’ they should be talking about it. There’s no other mention of you.”

“They did think he might be dead,” John said.

“True.” She went back to the emails. “’Recruiting’s going well but could use some more leaders,’ blah blah blah, ‘operations starting in Italy, Spain, and France,’ blah blah blah. Oh, that must be where Sergei was before he came here. Golov said he was close.”

“What does Golov’s email to Sergei say about you?” Sherlock prompted.

Before she could respond, they all heard a jiggling at the main door of 221. 

Lio paled. “Please tell me you locked my door.” She received confused silence from the two men. “Sergei knows where I live! I brought him here!” she shouted frantically, and began to run to the door. She was too late; it came completely off its hinges as a furious Sergei kicked it in. He said nothing and ran straight for Lio, who’d been momentarily stunned, and slipped behind her, wrapping an arm around her neck. He lifted her a few inches off the ground, which dragged a pained choke from her, and spun to face John and Sherlock before letting Lio down barely enough for her to balance on her toes. He rested the muzzle of a gun at Lio’s temple, effectively preventing them from acting. Lio clawed at the arm around her neck until she felt the weapon against her head and froze.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Was that what last night was all about? Getting close to me so you could get into my phone?” Sergei snarled into her ear.

“No, and yes,” Lio ground out, struggling to speak over the pressure on her throat. 

“You’ll end up killing her before she answers any more questions,” Sherlock said.

“Maybe that’s what I want.” He studied Sherlock for a moment. “I’ve seen you before. In Vo--”

“Volgograd,” Sherlock finished for him. “I escaped you and your drugs. What did you want with me? Why use Lio to get to me?”

Sergei barked a laugh. “You? I’m not here for you. What’s so important about you? Once you escaped, we washed our hands of you, hoping you’d died out in the cold. I didn’t ‘use’ Lio for anything. In fact, she used me.”

Lio’s eyes widened. “Me. You...wanted me.”

“Golov’s idea. When you contacted him, he wondered if you’d be a good fit. He sent me to check you out. I was about to send him a message this morning when I saw you’d been in my phone. So this whole ‘oh Sergei I missed you, I trust you, fuck me’ thing was to set me up, to get what, proof? How long did you know?” He shook her a little, causing her to gasp. She tightened her grip on the arm around her throat.

“From...the beginning…It was off...something...wasn’t...right. Sergei...please...don’t do this.”

“Are you begging now? In front of your new friends? Maybe I should get rid of them. This is between you and me.” He rested his wrist on her shoulder and aimed the gun at the two men, lazily switching between them. “Which one should I kill first?” he whispered in her ear.

The next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. Lio took Sergei’s distraction and the fact that his gun wasn’t pointed at her head as the opening she needed to snap one of her legs back into Sergei’s groin, drawing a howl. The gun fired, deafening Lio’s left ear. His grip around her neck loosened enough that she was able to fight out of it. She took a step away from him, wheezing, and felt a rush of air go past her as someone tackled Sergei.

“Sherlock, gun!” John shouted from the floor.

There were sounds of a struggle before Sherlock yelled “Got it!”

Lio wavered on her feet, every breath agony through her battered throat, but she was coherent enough to dimly hear a few hard punches and grunts from the two men battling on the floor, and Sherlock’s tight, “John, I can’t get a clean shot with you rolling around like that.”

There was another hard punch, a groan from John, and Sherlock yelling his name before she heard the impact of two bodies colliding and hitting the floor. Sergei was a panting mass in front of Lio, still focused on John and Sherlock for the moment. Lio let her old training take over, took advantage of his distraction and closed in behind him, reached around to grab his chin and jerked it as hard as she could up and to the right. She was half deaf, but she heard his neck snap. He dropped to the floor. Lio did the same. “Oh God,” she rasped.

John and Sherlock disentangled themselves from each other, Sherlock immediately texted Mycroft, and John checked Sergei. “He’s dead.” He turned his attention to Lio and touched her shoulder gently. She flinched hard. “Lio, other than your throat and ear, are you hurt anywhere else?”

She blinked a few times. “My—my ear?” she reached up to touch it and her hand came away wet.

“The gunshot ruptured your eardrum. It’s bleeding, but it’s not serious. Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked again.

“Mycroft’s on his way with Lestrade. They’ll take care of the body,” Sherlock said.

“Body? He’s dead?”

John was growing concerned. “Yes Lio. Sergei is dead.”

“I killed him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“I killed Sergei.”

“Yes. He would’ve killed all three of us if you hadn’t. You were defending us,” John said. He took her wrist and checked her pulse, which was racing. He also noticed she was cold and sweating, causing her to tremble slightly. “Lio, you’re going into shock. I need you to lie back and let me elevate your feet so you don’t pass out. Take slow, steady breaths, okay? Sherlock, grab a blanket.” Lio complied, and let John man-handle her legs under a few pillows. She also let Sherlock cover her with a blanket. 

Sherlock set Sergei’s gun on the kitchen table and looked at the bullet hole in the counter-top, where it was still lodged. It had miraculously gone between both men and been stopped from causing further damage by the sturdy material. 

John looked up at him. “Lucky.” He turned his attention back to Lio. “How are you doing?”

“V-Versed,” she said weakly through clenched teeth.

“What?” John switched to doctor mode and checked her pulse again, which was still fast. She was still shaking, not as much as before, but now her muscles were tense, wound tight as if she was pressing against some invisible force. The tendons corded at her neck and he could see her moving her jaw back and forth, grinding her teeth. Her eyes were no longer moving in the familiar random jerkiness; they rolled wildly as she struggled to keep them open. “Shit. Lio, where is it?”

“K-kitch-kk--” The seizure took her before she could get the word out.

“Sherlock, check the kitchen cabinets for a vial of Versed, quickly!” John set the timer on his phone while Sherlock found the Versed. “Good, hold her head still as gently as possible. I’m going to try to get this into her.” He scanned the instructions on the vial and pulled the medication into the dropper. He slid it between her lips and teeth and forced the liquid into her mouth. John massaged her throat a few times, hoping to get the drug into her system. “All right, let go. Now we just have to wait,” he said, rolling Lio onto her side.

Sherlock stepped back. “Shouldn’t be long. Mycroft and Lestrade--”

He was interrupted by a small stampede as Lestrade burst into the flat, followed more leisurely by Mycroft. 

“Bloody Hell!” Lestrade exclaimed. “What happened?”

“Sergei. He came here and attacked us. Lio killed him,” Sherlock explained perfunctorily.

“An ambulance should be arriving shortly. I assumed someone would be injured.” Mycroft nodded at Sergei’s body. “What did he want?”

“He was after Lio, not me.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said with a nod. “That still leaves Golov, but I think the evidence Lio gathered should be enough to turn over to some colleagues of mine in the Russian government. I’ll have him taken care of.”

“Any time on that ambulance would be great. We’re over three minutes on this seizure and the Versed hasn’t touched it,” John said. He was kneeling on the floor near her head as Lio continued to seize.

“Can you give her another dose?” Sherlock asked, walking over. He stopped next to Lestrade who was crouched next to Sergei, taking notes.

“I’d rather not. It might depress her respiratory system too much and we certainly can’t handle both at once.”

Lestrade looked up from his notebook. “Do you know how hard it is to break someone’s neck like this? Shut up, Sherlock, I’m sure _you_ know.”

“Mycroft’s fairly intelligent and John’s a doctor, so yes, we’re well aware.” Sherlock ignored Mycroft’s glare. “The body tends to move with the head. He wasn’t expecting her to be a threat. He let his guard down and focused on us.” Sherlock turned his attention back to Lio and observed blood was flecked around her mouth and trailed from one corner. He took another step and winced at the squelch his foot made in the carpet. “Well, she wasn’t spared that indignity this time.”

“No, unfortunately not,” John said, “She must’ve bitten her tongue or cheek. That’s where the blood is coming from.” He checked the timer. “Damn. C’mon Lio.”

“Status epilecticus?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded a bit grimly. “Six minutes and counting.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Lestrade asked, standing.

“No. She needs to be in hospital on a heavy dose of benzos to break the seizure,” John explained. He could finally hear sirens, thank God. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to watch Lio seize.

The ambulance arrived a few moments later and hustled Lio away. John climbed in after her, not wanting Lio to be alone in case she woke up along the way, and Sherlock assured him that they would take care of everything at Baker Street.

/*/*/*/*/*

John returned home later that evening. Sherlock had warmed up leftovers waiting for him, which he devoured sitting in his chair in front of the telly. “I see the door to Lio’s flat is back up,” he said through a mouthful. He lifted his fork in cheers. “Thanks for this, by the way, I’m absolutely starving. Hospital biscuits and coffee only do so much.”

Sherlock nodded. “Hmm. Mycroft will have some people come by and replace the door and clean the carpet. He’s also insisting on one of those doorbell cameras.”

John almost choked on the forkful of pad Thai he’d shoveled into his mouth. 

“Yes, that was my reaction as well. I advised him it wasn’t necessary, that we could be certain no additional Russian mercenaries would be coming for Lio as she was out of teammates. I don’t believe he listened, so I suspect the camera will be installed tomorrow with the door.”

John rolled his eyes and shook his head. Changing subjects, he said, “Lio should come off sedation tomorrow morning, so she might be able to come home tomorrow evening, but it will more likely be the day after. I spoke briefly with Dr Patel, and I get the feeling he doesn’t like us, like we’ve corrupted her or something.”

“Before we came into the picture, I’m sure she lived a very bland life.”

“Yes, you do have that affect on people,” John said with a smirk.

Sherlock grinned back. “I told Mrs Hudson to take a few more days with her niece. With Mycroft’s people doing work on 221C, it makes more sense for her to extend her holiday.”

John nodded. “No need to bother her with the noise. And Mycroft. We should visit Lio tomorrow afternoon, but after that, I would welcome a quiet night at home.”


	15. Tainted Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick check with Lio in the hospital before the epilogue. Chapter title from "dystopia" off polaris by Tesseract.

The two of them slept in and took their time the next morning, leisurely getting ready for the day. Mycroft invited himself up for a late brunch while his workers were replacing Lio’s door and cleaning the carpeting. He also had a security team installing a few extra measures around all three flats and the surrounding street, but kept most of that information to himself. No need to ruffle feathers, as he knew neither Sherlock nor John would approve of his meddling. 

John and Mycroft sat in the living room while Sherlock finished getting dressed. John had just gotten off the phone with the hospital and confirmed that Lio was off sedation and awake, so he and Sherlock were going to head there. Mycroft asked to join them.

“You sure you want to come along?” John asked suspiciously.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know; it just doesn’t seem like something you’d typically do. At least not for anyone but Sherlock,” he added hastily.

“She has saved both your lives twice now. I believe she’s entitled to a brief hospital visit.”

Sherlock snorted in disbelief as he rejoined them. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying, brother.”

Recognizing an impending argument when he saw one, John cleared his throat and stood, stretching and grimacing slightly as his back popped. “Let’s head out. We won’t stay long; I don’t want to exhaust her.”

The three of them arrived shortly after lunch time and were directed to Lio’s room by a very chipper nurse. Lio was propped up in bed, seemingly listening to the TV, which was turned to a nature program. Her head was tilted to the left and away from the door, focusing the sound to her functioning right ear. They filed in quietly, but Lio turned her head toward them and smiled softly.

“Hey,” she said, her voice still raspy.

“Lio, good to see you awake,” John said as they sat, “Sherlock and Mycroft are here too.”

She nodded. “I know, there were three pairs of feet. The third could have been Lestrade, but his steps are more forceful and louder.”

“How are you feeling, Miss Verednikova?”

She shrugged. “Uzhasny.”

“Terrible,” Sherlock translated.

“Yeah, kinda got that,” John said. Lio didn’t look that great either. Her eyes were dull and had dark circles under them, her normally wild hair was flat and limp, and she still appeared to be tense, as if… “Lio, you can ask for something for the pain, you know.”

She was shaking her head before he was even finished. “I’m on the max dose of paracetamol. No opiates. I don’t like the way they make me feel. I’m missing half my hearing, and the smell of the hospital is overwhelming just about everything else. It’s hard enough to stay focused without the deadening effects of an opioid. Oxy puts me out like that,” she said with a snap of her fingers.

John didn’t like it, but he didn’t push it. 

“Will we be seeing Dr Patel? I understand he believes I’ve led you astray,” Sherlock said.

Lio’s mouth quirked into a lopsided grin. “I suppose that’s an accurate description of his opinion. I haven’t had an SE seizure this long in years. But to answer your question, no. He’s already been here and read me the riot act regarding stress levels and taking care of myself.” She was silent for a few moments, then said quietly, “I do, you know. Take care of myself. I take all my drugs and get the proper amount of sleep. Try not to get involved in your shenanigans,” she smirked again, but it quickly dropped into a frown. “I did that before, too, before I met you all. I was really only existing at that point, though. I’d take a pill, eat, take a nap, eat, take a pill, go to bed. Maybe go to the shops. Go to the doctor regularly. Watched what I ate. Didn’t drink, except maybe a small glass every once in a while. Just go through the motions.” She shook her head ruefully, hands clenched in the sheets. “These past few months, I’ve actually felt useful, like I could actually contribute again instead of being a drain, a tumor. I don’t want to lose that.”

John put a hand on her knee and felt her tense slightly before relaxing. “I know exactly how you feel, Lio. Sherlock brought me out of that same place after I came back from Afghanistan. He seems to bring out the best in people.” He sent a fond glance to Sherlock, and caught Mycroft’s face out of the corner of his eye. He looked like he’d bitten into a lemon.

Mycroft stood. “I believe that’s all the saccharine sweetness I can handle. It’s good to see you’re on the mend, Miss Veredikova, and for good or ill, you’re now part of this ragtag group. Your flat will be repaired and cleaned in time for your return. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything else. John, Sherlock,” he said, nodding at them before leaving.

“Cleaned? I can’t imagine too much was knocked out of place,” Lio said.

“He’s shampooing the carpet,” Sherlock told her. 

“Sham—oh. Oh.” She rubbed her face. “Sorry about that.”

John squeezed her knee. “Nothing to be sorry about. It happens.”

“It’s a common occurrence to become incontinent during a seizure. It’s nothing unexpected,” Sherlock said.

“I know, doesn’t mean it’s not embarrassing.” She sighed and shook her head. “Just make sure he doesn’t rearrange my furniture.”

“Everything will remain where you left it,” Sherlock assured her.

“Lio...” John began, but took a moment to continue. He wasn’t sure if he should broach this subject with her. Deciding to just ask, he said, “You’ve never mentioned it, but I have to wonder...is there anyone we can call for you? Back in Russia? Maybe someone to stay with you for a while so you can recover? I mean, Sherlock and I are here of course, but between cases and my locum work...there’s Mrs Hudson too, but I worry about her health as well...” As he spoke, Lio, who had been “looking” at him, turned away.

“No,” she said quietly. “There’s no one left.”

“Oh...I-I’m sorry, I didn’t...”

“You’re an only child,” Sherlock broke in.

She nodded. “Mother died having me. Father raised me alone.”

“He died before you joined the service.”

Lio turned back to them. “Why do you say that?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “You joined an incredibly dangerous profession at a young age. You’re smart enough that you could have gotten a different position in the army, perhaps in analysis or tactics, but you chose more ‘hands on.’ Perhaps if you still had family, you would have gone for something less potentially lethal. But as you said, there’s no one left. There hasn’t been anyone for a long time.”

John watched Lio’s face: the slight narrowing of her eyes and the clenching of her jaw; her brows pulled together, her bottom lip pushed up a bit as the corners dropped. God, it was almost like looking at himself from before he met Sherlock. He cursed himself internally for not seeing it sooner. She hid so much under the sarcastic, biting humor and the physical disabilities that he didn’t consider her emotional state. There would definitely be changes when she came home. 

Lio sighed. “Father died just after I started at the Academy. Complications from pneumonia. My team was all I had for a long time. And with Sergei dead...” her breath hitched. “Blyat.” She put a hand up to her eyes.

Sherlock surprised John by placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Judging by the way Lio suddenly froze, she was just as shocked. “You can build a new team. You’ll be our commanding officer, and Captain Watson will be your second in command.” He turned to John. “If that’s okay with you.”

John chuckled, “Maybe you should run it by Major Verednikova.”

She huffed a breathy laugh and wiped at her face. “I think you should be running it by Mycroft, not me. He is the British Government after all.”

Sherlock lifted his hand from her shoulder and waved it dismissively again. “This will be our own private army. Me, you, John, Lestrade. Maybe Molly and Mrs Hudson too.”

Lio smiled and seemed genuinely amused. “Sure Sherlock. If that’s the case, then my first order then is for you two to go home and let me get some sleep before I have to come back to the madhouse that is Baker Street.” She punctuated the order with a yawn.

John stood. “C’mon Sherlock, you heard the Major.” He gave Lio a brief hug. “We’ll come back tomorrow to take you home, all right?”

She nodded with a smile. “Thank you.”


	16. The Light that Guides Me Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> straight up porn. usually i edit/beta my own shit, but i didn't do that with this chapter. i believe all the words are there. you have no idea how many times i typoed sherlock as sherlcok during this. Chapter title from "halo" off transmissions by starset (ha, changed it up)

They picked up some takeout for dinner on the way home. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Sherlock broke it by asking, “Are you all right?” after catching John rolling his neck and shoulders for the third time since they sat down.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just a little sore from the fight with Sergei. I was pretty stiff this morning, but the shower helped. I took some paracetamol earlier.”

Sherlock frowned at John. “You didn’t tell me you were in pain.”

John shrugged and winced. “It’s only a few sore muscles. Nothing a little time and rest won’t take care of.”

“Go fill the bath. I’ll deal with the clean up out here. Soak a while.”

“Seriously?” John asked incredulously, eyes wide.

“Go!” Sherlock ordered, shooing him away.

“Whatever happened to ‘Captain Watson,’ second in command?” John chuckled as he headed to the bath.

“Overruled by your loving partner!” Sherlock called after him.

John laughed again as he grabbed clean clothes while the tub filled. He brushed his teeth too since he was in here, and took another paracetamol. He’d tightened up more than he’d expected to after the altercation with Sergei, although he assumed it was due to the first major amount of stress he’d put on his body since the whole Moran ordeal. 

He checked the water, and finding it to his liking, sank in with a sigh. He let his mind drift aimlessly for a few minutes, focusing on relishing the heat of the water soothing his aching muscles. His mind eventually came to Sherlock, as it often did. So much had happened between them since he came back, and he wouldn’t change any of it. Everything, from the moment Lio called him after Sherlock was injured chasing Moran, had led to this, led to Sherlock calling himself John’s “loving partner.” John snorted a laugh through his nose. He wondered if Lio considered herself a matchmaker. John assumed he was bisexual now, but he didn’t think he would look at another man the way he looked at Sherlock, or feel the same. It was strange, to be attracted to another man after being so staunchly straight, but he’d worked through most of his doubts after acknowledging what he felt for Sherlock and seeing how...beautiful he was. Especially during sex.

John didn’t know if it was that thought or the heat of the bath that was making his face warm. He figured the latter based on the way his cock twitched interestedly. He frowned. Sherlock had given him everything, but there was still something John could give to Sherlock. He didn’t know if he was ready for that or if he would even like it. John thought for a moment, then decided to give it try, see what it felt like. He raised his knees and slid down a little into the tub, allowing his seeking hand better access. He found the opening and circled it gently. Not terrible so far. He pushed against it with a pinky finger. When it popped in, he was so startled John nearly yanked it right back out. It didn’t really feel much like anything, really. Maybe a little pressure, but not painful or pleasurable. He wiggled it around, moving it in circles and very, very slowly widening the opening. He could feel more pressure now, but that was it. He wasn’t even hard. John traded the pinky for his middle finger.

More pressure and not quite a sting, though his finger wasn’t very deep. John changed the angle of his arm and steadily pushed in. 

The prostate is a magical organ, John thought absurdly as he brushed against it. A little _zing!_ of pleasure went right to his cock, making it harden slightly. He slid his finger out, blowing out a heavy breath. He relaxed again against the tub to get himself under control.

The water began to cool before John’s erection subsided. He scrubbed himself dry and put on the clean pajama bottoms he’d brought with him, drained the water, and left the bathroom. 

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen in the immediate vicinity, but the kitchen had been cleaned up as promised. John headed to the bedroom, wary at how dimly lit it was. Sherlock was shirtless at the foot of the bed, tearing all the covers off it. The desk next to the bed held a wide array of Sherlock’s fancy lotions.

“Do I even want to know?” John asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

“It’s a massage, John. Tell me which one you want,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the lotions.

He sniffed a few. “Hmm...The sandalwood, cedar, and vetiver, I think.”

“Good choice. Get on the bed. On your stomach, arms at your sides.”

John suppressed the shiver that the order produced and did as Sherlock directed. The bed dipped as Sherlock straddled his hips. John heard the bottle of lotion open and close

“Your left shoulder a good place to start?” Sherlock asked, rubbing his hands together to warm the lotion.

“Mmm, please.”

John was unable to suppress the groan that the first press of Sherlock’s hands into his shoulder drew out.

“Good?” Sherlock asked, and John could hear the smirk.

“Ohhh yes.”

Sherlock continued along his shoulders and upper back, working his long fingers into the knotted muscles, spending most of his time on John’s damaged left shoulder, tracing the scarring softly at first, then gradually increasing the press and pull of his hands until John was moaning as the tension was worked out by Sherlock’s expert ministrations. Sherlock added a little more lotion as he moved down to the middle of John’s back, sliding his palms against slightly bruised ribs before returning to John’s spine. John released a long keening groan as a particularly painful knot was released. Sherlock shifted a little so he could more easily reach John’s lower back, and began again, kneading and caressing the sore muscles at his waist.

“Haaaahhh,” John breathed. He may be drooling; he didn’t care, he was so relaxed. Sherlock was doing absolutely heinous things with those hands and violinist fingers. “Hmmm,” he hummed in pleasure as Sherlock undid the tension at the base of his spine. He arched a bit, seeking more contact.

John’s eyes slid open and he turned back to look at Sherlock. “Are you...hard?”

“Well, it’s your fault! Those sounds…! They’re— _electrifying_.” He was flushed, his bottom lip was a little swollen as if he’d been biting it, and he was nearly panting. Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide, the irises resembling eclipsed suns.

John bucked back against Sherlock, and he moaned openly. “You’re not finished with the massage, are you?” John asked with a sultry smirk and a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock slid John’s pants down with a dark look of his own, exposing his arse. Sherlock was now straddling John’s upper thighs, and John could feel Sherlock’s erection pressing against him. Sherlock grabbed the lotion again and went to work on the muscled flesh, clearly no longer focused on the massage. He palmed and spread. John sucked in a ragged breath.

Sherlock leaned forward and began kissing John’s back. His hands trailed down John’s arms, performing a cursory massage on his biceps, before tangling their fingers together. Sherlock rocked against John, his cock slotted in John’s cleft.

“Mmmm….John,” Sherlock sighed, and pushed himself up to kiss John awkwardly on the mouth. “Can I--”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. “You’re sure?”

“No, not really, but...for you? I’m willing to try.”

Sherlock kissed him again, and then moved back down his body, planting kisses behind his ear, on his neck, and down his spine. He reached John’s arse, paused, and stood up. He removed both his own and John’s pants. “John...you’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to taste you.”

John twisted to look back just as Sherlock dipped his head down and licked a wet stripe from his balls to his hole. “Jesus!” he gasped. Sherlock went down again, sucking and licking his balls. “Wait!” John called, breathless. He shoved a pillow under his stomach, below his navel. “Should be a better angle.”

Sherlock answered by putting his hands on John’s arse and spreading him open. “Much better,” he said, before flicking his tongue over John’s hole. The other man shivered. “All right?”

John nodded silently, flushed bright red and eyes squinted shut.

“Relax, John, or that massage will go to waste,” Sherlock chided gently. 

John huffed a laugh and forced himself to loosen up. “Keep going.”

Sherlock stroked John’s cock with a loose grip. He wasn’t hard yet, but it would be distracting and hopefully the pleasure there would carry over. Sherlock traced his tongue from John’s perineum and circled the puckered opening a few times before attempting to thrust inside. John tensed briefly, then went lax again as Sherlock used one hand to softly play with his cock and the other held him open so Sherlock’s tongue could continue laving the tight ring. Sherlock was using his lips as well as his tongue, kissing from the head of John’s cock and back up, but focused mainly on opening him. John was hard now, and leaking; Sherlock dragged a finger through the precome and brought it to his rim, tongue spearing into him deeper than before. A broken, gravelly moan escaped John’s throat, and he tried to jerk his hips back into that tongue, but Sherlock’s hand moved to his back and held him steady. The warm, wet muscle moved in quick circles, pierced in and out of him in shallow little thrusts, and drove hard into him as deeply as Sherlock could. John was absolutely sloppy with Sherlock’s saliva before he pulled back. 

“John, I need to use my fingers now. Tell me if you’re uncomfortable or want to stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hold on,” John said a little breathlessly. He rolled over onto his back, his cock hard and red against his stomach. “I want to see you.”

Sherlock, now settled between John’s legs, smiled and leaned forward to kiss him on the mouth, but abruptly changed course to his jaw. He continued up behind John’s ear, nipping a little as he went. John liked this better; he was able to touch now, and ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair before bringing his mouth down to Sherlock’s throat and sucking.

“Ah, John!” Sherlock cried. He pulled back a little, and before John could go in again, Sherlock shoved two fingers in his mouth. “Suck.” John’s eyes widened and his cock throbbed at the order. “These are going in you, so make them nice and wet.” John gathered saliva and worked his tongue around Sherlock’s fingers, imagining they were Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock was panting as he withdrew, and slid his dripping fingers between John’s legs. Already softened from the rimming earlier, the first finger slid in easily. 

“Ohhhhhh,” John moaned, then bucked as Sherlock’s fingertip hit his prostate. “Oh fuck!”

“It’s good?” Sherlock asked with a knowing smirk. His finger continued prodding.

“God, yes. More.”

Sherlock’s other finger joined the first and John circled his hips. “Oh God, Sherlock! I need...I...I need to come! Please make me come!”

“Lube, John, grab the lube,” Sherlock said, scissoring his fingers a bit as John twisted to the bedside drawer. He retrieved the bottle and tossed it to Sherlock. “You’re sure?” Sherlock asked, the playfulness from earlier replaced by seriousness.

“You’ve got two fingers buried in me. I just gave you lube. Yes, I’m sure. _Fuck me_ , Sherlock,” John demanded.

Sherlock closed his eyes as if in prayer and reopened them. He slicked his cock and pressed against John’s entrance. He caught John’s gaze and held it (and his breath) as he pushed in slowly. “Okay?” he asked, seeing John wince. John’s erection had wilted a little.

“Yeah, it’s fine, just...stop for a second and kiss me.”

Sherlock brought his mouth to John’s, keeping one hand on himself to keep from thrusting in too fast. The other he ran through John’s hair.

His eyes were pinched closed in discomfort. It wasn’t painful, since he’d been pretty well prepared, but he was definitely uncomfortable with Sherlock inside him. John took a few moments to get used to it, then broke their kiss. “All right, Sherlock, you can move.” Sherlock looked like he’d been told there was a locked-room murder for him to solve as he rocked back and thrust forward gently and deeper. He took hold of John’s softened cock and began jerking it in time to his thrusts. Each time he moved, Sherlock went deeper until he finally hit that magic organ.

John yelped. “Fuck that’s good! Right there Sherlock, right there!”

Sherlock took that as permission to put a little more strength into his hips as he plunged into John. The precome was making obscene sounds as John leaked over his hand.

John pinched one of Sherlock’s nipples and he threw back his head and keened. “John, I’m—I’m close,” he panted. 

“So am I. _Harder_.” John said, just as breathless.

Sherlock pushed up and braced himself with his hands on the back of John’s thighs. John gripped his own cock in one hand and tugged hard and fast, rolling his balls with the other. Sweat dripped from Sherlock’s nose as it flowed in rivulets from his forehead. 

“Oh fuck! Sherlock!” John howled as he came, painting his chest and stomach.

“John...I’m so close,” Sherlock all but whimpered.

“Come in me, Sherlock,” John whispered, pulling two fingers through the mess on his chest and circling his nipples. He whined at the over sensitivity.

“John!” Sherlock roared and bent double as emptied himself into John. John grabbed the back of his neck and brought him down for a searing kiss. 

*/**/**/*//*

It took about twenty minutes for their breathing to return to normal. They were chest to chest, Sherlock on top, and neither wanted to move. 

“We are absolutely _disgusting_ ,” John said. “I think we’re stuck together. Possibly dehydrated.”

“You’re not suggesting we _get up_ , are you?”

“We’ll have to at some point. Either that or wait for Mrs Hudson to come home so she can hose us down.”

“Ask Lio to do it. She won’t be able to see the state we’re in.”

“She’ll be able to _smell_ it. And we’re the ones that are supposed to pick her up.”

“Mmm. Fine,” Sherlock said, and rolled off John with a grimace. He got to his feet and pulled John up. “Shower?”

John looked down at himself. “Shower.” He stretched and popped his back. “I might need another massage.”

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look and John burst out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have noticed, but i really like the band Tesseract. djent/prog rock is my jam. if anyone is interested, most of this was written to tesseract, karnivool, butterfly effect, acroma, thrice, starset, red sun rising, katatonia, rishloo, caligula's horse, and a shit ton of others. 
> 
> when i learned i had a brain tumor in september 2018, i thought "oh shit, i gotta finish this." i didnt make it in time. you would think that during my two month recovery period, i wouldve been able to crank this out, but no. yay procrastination! i also find porn really hard to write for some reason, like someone's gonna burst into my apartment and laugh at me. 
> 
> i do have an idea for a part three, and also maybe a prequel focusing on john while sherlock was away, because we all have to do one of those.


End file.
